Guilt

A surrender by the face of its brightness, Worried legs avoiding the closest: On once-proud shoulders, a pronounced lightness And self-biting lips pursed not in pretext. A restraining of body movements By one willing to make improvements Cheap tasks stretching beyond momentary completion Deigning to outlast a fever-pitch oration. One’s eyes no more can challenge lingered gazes, Either pair easily picking suspicious praises; A head never failing to fly low, One’s heart shedding much of its accustomed glory. It’s a dreadfully itching right eyelid That won’t make light of what one did: With storming considerations of an open confession But also its ruins of a rosy profession! This is, by and by, guilt: A mood in which, we’d half-wilt, Thriving when one’s conscience isn’t rusty Or normal human feeling frosty… Or the pages of one’s Bible dusty: One’s morals still standing bolt upright And one strives to do all things right.