It is the splinter under the flesh
The thorn that bites the heel
The speck in the eyes that one cannot see.
A pinching hollow darkness
That breeds nightmarish dreams
Born of normal ones, but twisted at the seams.
The cause is immaterial,
Be it false or just,
The effect is the same; a harsh breach of trust.
Perhaps there is a chance
In the offer of forgiveness
But damned is the soul that agrees to that perspective.
For memory allows no retraction
Of words, from thought or speech
Salvation seems a poor joke while bound to punishment’s leash.
© Ruth P. – 2016
No part of this work may be reproduced.