Consequences
Struck void the will of intellect,
against such pondering,
the injured spirit to protect.
No tangled reminisce provides,
Surcease to turnings
of such tortured mind.
Nor time-fogged recall
that guide requires -
So indelibly scored, Regret's cold ire.
And soul bereft of all hope of gain,
Forsakes Intention's road,
for one paved in self - disdain.
And all the way,
the mocking laugher never fades.
'Sleep well now, in this bed you've made.'
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