Each mortal thinks they be the worst sinner:

Tis a world so lost though be a winner, Each mortal thinks they be the worst sinner. Wandering, pondering, gazing alone, On a cold moonlit night, stars be shone. A pen, a page or should i memorize? Thoughts of rage i'd like to summarize. Tapping, writing, drafting, tearing, Voices echoing, thoughts endearing. Be it reality or a poignant fiction, Memories i hold, sorrows i bore, Makes me wander more and more. A moonlit night and stars be shone, Oh dear worries! leave me alone. In the cold breeze, a shiver runs down my spine, Was anything, ever promised, To be mine.. Only mine? I struggle i strife and try to compose, The words my head would otherwise enclose. A man undefiled or a man dissolute, Each mortal be having, sentiments acute. They think they be drowning in the depths of their sins, While the same thoughts be occuring through the minds of their kins. Be it a man, A man undefiled, a man dissolute, Each mortal, thus, has feelings acute. But their be people, who seek, who repent, Who refuge and remorse and pursue the clement. Then they learn to swim, they reach the shore, And conquer the quests their hearts bore. May the voices in their heads be quiet soon, May the cured hearts loom, in the bleak cold noon.