Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue
what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new
or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?
previously entitle 'restless'