I, like a
malefactor surgeon fixing,
fix with a curse unforgiving.
a heart stitch—regret
threading soul together in an
ill fitted reverse dissect;
never again to resemble the
valour of past represent.

I, the guilty party,
a man’s poorest image—
needed not jury to try,
but served as judge to self;
a sentence to decry—to
live out my days absent scorch,
knowing,
it to be those loved most to
bear the scars of
failures not owning.

I, a man of cursed flesh,
shall upon night’s shutters to close,
dwell upon those
sins of which I chose,
impotent to forgive,
impossible to forget,
the love I did pose.