part 1 of 5

Up on a feathered duvet a man conceding defeat
To the Sunday that had just begun
Reeking of last nights sweat, smoke and self deceit
Threads of reality so rapidly un-spun
All that he promised himself to accomplish this day
All that stuff to be tossed in the bin
Procrastination rearranges plans or lets them decay  
And all because of his love for gin
Amnesia of last nights antics plants the seeds of guilt
Shame shall be his shadow today
Enter a recurring thought... *a sword driven to its hilt
Piercing pain added to his dismay
Rusted cogs of cognition screeched slowly into action
"A cure" he grumbled "A cure"
Wearily off the bed searching for medicinal satisfaction
To make last night less obscure
The stark bright light of the bathroom fried his vision
But as his senses normalized
He stared in the mirror shocked, BANG! in a collision
Mouth agape and paralyzed
Finger painted on his forehead, with what must be blood  
G    U    I    L    T   Y
From down stairs somewhere
A woman's laugh
Mocking
Fear took its grip quick
*a sword driven to its hilt