regret sometimes whispers in a soft oiled voice, that meanders through the mind, finding the raw places of guilt
those fires that become embers by time and studied ignorance and blows soft worded memories giving oxygen to cinders, that light the night like cane fires, all smoke and the madly rushing things that race before the fire scream their torror and fear and hate as they blindly follow the exodus into the light, into the short grass, tarmac pavement, open grave that is waiting....there they either stop transfixed or continue pellmell onwards...the fire roars behind them they have no place but out there is no control, there is no measure thought or reticence there is action, and smoke and grime
and a sweet smell, that is sickening yet like candy, and campfires
I hate it when I hear the slickoiled voice of regret in my head... for I know the conflagration follows