Guilt
There exists no more certain
assassin of joy than that of
anger turned within.
Guilt’s grim scepter,
harrowed mind thus firmly wields,
and this with deft uncommon,
to bring renewed complaint
at slightest urge.
Senseless ruin whose
vapid tongue hisses
only self-derision’s name,
nobility to confound.
Slacken then this twisted cord
and in its place benign regret,
for guilt condemns the soul.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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