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