Full of venom,
no antidote in sight
Taking a dig at my sleep
at half past three
Tugging at the coat-tail of shame
I no more wear
Reminding me of the days
long dead
If conscience could kill
with its half-hearted bite,
will there be room for pain
that thrives on guilt?
If only it weren't too lazy
to finish what it started
Would any of us be left
with hearts heavied by regrets?
One blow, sincere and clean
One bite, aimed at the neck of memory,
in the nick of time,
One clean sweep and there'll be
nothing left to resent.
Alas the languid pet snake
would only have me annoyed,
unsettled,
sleepless at times.
But never will it dare
wake me out of the slumber I wear
To keep committing the (same) vile,
over and again
Afterall, conscience too need think
of surviving
For, it will be out of place
on a broken neck, an algid face,
someone dying of misgivings.
It need con me into thinking-
it is on the other, brighter,
shinier side of the fence,
where virtue is waiting.
Waiting to be taken as a way of being
and not something to merely brandish
when someone's watching
Afterall conscience too
need make a living
and ensure roof over the head of remorse
when it starts raining memories
Allowing for the embers of guilt
to keep smouldering in cold lament
Killing me with constant nagging
yet keep me from dying
or ever become
my unbecoming.
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