Keepsake

Tell me that you've felt a failure In doing what was right While pillows dampen, salted In dying sleepless night A wonder, wonders bless the wicked And the same thing in reverse Ensure the gnarled vines of virtue Not easily traversed With once a gleaming moral compass More a burden than a tool Its rusting ends give rhyme to meaning well A witty slogan of the fool The firmest grasp may surely loosen Slipping chains cut like a knife In vain, try letting go completely This blessed curse carried for life As tainted blood drips from your calloused palm And every orangy link Try not to smirk upon the splashes More rewarding than you'd think