I, the wallower in shame’s lasting breath,  
Shall stand upon the precipice of pride departed.  
Can only sense this lingering stress  
As I am left, and the journey started.  
Shall crawl into self-consciousness  
And be rightfully disregarded.

Bound to stare with sorrowful gaze,  
To wave a hand not alive but dead—  
But the hand beckons as if to taste  
Their shadows lingering that once light casted.