Aren't we all slaves of our own guilty choices?
Probably that's what makes us all,
masters of denial!
Denial, not of truth,
nor of hatred, vengeance or love.
It is the denial of that little You within,
for its squeaking silence ain't loud enough
to awaken the spirit of dishonor,
sedated meticulously with infidelity.
Rise it will, one day,
not too late, never too early,
drowning in a puddle of remorse
numb with hope,
gasping for peace.
torn between a dollop of faith
and a pinch of impiety,
is a chunk of my conscience,
frantically in search of sublime chaos,
measured and gentle,
just enough to conceive a poem;
just enough, to not want it finished.