I scrub a
blot of moral code on my
Person. I
wake up to mildewed pledges
Devoid of
character. Unsure, I try
Washing off
those layers, blunting edges
That once
cut gaping crevices in my
Conscience.
Guilty, I, once bled profusely
With
penitence abounding. Now belie
All I stood
by. Now, just hanging loosely,
I stare at
all that’s come undone, and how,
Wonder wherefore
rectitude confined me
Or was I too
indulgent to avow,
All this
while, the comforting majesty
Of bending moral
fibre, wishfully.
That’s all
we do, that’s all that has to be.
