Remorse is a whisper,
To crawl inside of the embrace of blame,
The lips of wanting, of aching,
Knowing nothing will be the same.
Friction of flint amongst the forest,
Engulfing, molten in shame.
It tastes like a culmination of grey,
of clouds and storms making their way,
and when they arrive, they stare you down,
with nothing to say.
It is a knife in your neck you can’t remove,
because if you do, you risk bleeding out,
better the discomfort and pain,
and living in hope and doubt.
Guilt weighs as much as your awareness,
for some it is immovable,
featherweight and airless.
For some, tears are enough,
to wash away whatever they’ve done,
others can cry rivers,
and never overcome.
Doubt is such a wonderful companion,
to remind you of your nothingness,
and in it’s vapour bathe,
in humility’s downward gaze, utterly helpless.