The tilt of my seesaw is decidedly downward facing dog:
and there’s no rush to judgment, for the powers that be, be delighted by slow-walking, making the waiting max-tortuous, but am of an age when everything, even the long buried sins and unkept promises, poke and **** nonstop, and the formulae once relied upon to ease incipient self-deception, to temporize and salve the consternations
of unkempt aggravated remorse fail,
as aged misdemeanors be matured felonies, I blurt and declare guilt to all, alas, and yet, in the ultimate crushing of tardiness, knotted by indignity of silence,