No one cares about

what I did wrong in the past --


yet it torments me.

I know you are impartial,
You do not take sides
Not with the oppressed,
Not with the oppressors.

You are a good human,
You do not interfere in the acts of others,
Even if they are murders
In the brightness of the day.

You are a good human being,
You do not speak of wars,
Of blood, of wounds,
Of cries, of deaths.

You wish only to spread love,
To cover your eyes,
To shield your ears,
To silence your tongue
Against the roar of evil.

But tonight, before you sleep,
Close your doors,
Shut your windows tight,
And whisper only to yourself.

Ask your heart, the one you hide,
Ask as the human you had promised to be
Everything happening around you,
Before your open eyes

The screams that break into your house,
The cries that stain your walls,
The blood that runs through your streets

Is it good, or is it bad?

If it is good,
Then sleep peacefully,
And know you are right.

If it is bad,
Then know —
You have been wrong.

In life, perhaps, I fear no more a thing,
But pangs of conscience frighten my weary soul.
In night’s deep hush, I pray, my voice takes wing –
My heart aches sharp, and tears begin to roll.

Some are no more. Their souls to heavens fled.
No chance to meet, embrace, or greet again.
What is life? A fleeting flash...
The wave runs fast, by breakwaters split and spread.
No words remain to answer for the pain.

Forgive me now, for I was blind with pride,
Why did I fling sharp words into your face?
Forgive me, those I wounded in my rage,
Back then, life’s feast seemed like eternal grace,
And I felt not the sting of conscience’s bite.

O wisdom, soothe this sorrow in my breast!
In Lethe’s stream, no soul may enter twice –
To you, departed, much I owe, confessed.
The voice of conscience screamed in night’s still air...

Lethe – the river of oblivion in Greek mythology.

there’s enough anger in one man
to put even the Gods to shame;
it speaks to him in
mournful moments, when -
the shadow of doubt clouds  
his acumen, and his candour
reigns far too long.

he sleeps with it;
dreams of it;
and once it has
invaded his subconscious,
he revels in it --
it makes him feel powerful,
and hungry for a scam
that disguises itself as a reward.

belittled by his own words,
he seeks refuge in others
who share his wrath -
for they are everywhere:
they help him carve his words
into a dagger of insecurity,
with which he stabs those
who tried to offer him
an antonym for violence;

the blood he draws shall
dye his conscience -
evil red.

Are you saying sorry now  
to all the folk inside your head,
for all the rotten stuff you did
but it's too late now, 'cause they be dead?

Sorry, sorry, to Moma
sorry, sorry, to Papa too,
saying sorry to that old neighbour  
for all the rottenness I did to you.

And the brother and the sister
god, I dare not go there,
and how the hate of self rises
up is almost too much to bear...

And when I am gone, gone far away
from all the rotten things I've said and done,
will folk say sorry to me in their heads
and will I hear, not even one?

Sins, bites on your conscience
          never to your convenience.
       No salvation, No revelations.
               Unblessed the lucky
       bottomless becomes your destiny
and darkness laments, it’s quite cloudy
     wavy timelines, weary crimes
                   Brooking our doom
                  creating thy tomb
                   as deaths looms.