|The conscience. 2015. Oil on canvas|
Inside, that still small voice hides
beneath the bundles of my goodest deeds,
my vain attempts at conscience salving.
Try as I might I cannot heal the wound that I have made,
those injurious words that cut you deep,
harmed the very heart of you.
You say that’s its okay that we all say words
that we regret when anger rises rules our tongue,
your selfless kindness marks you out above myself,
the selfish self-crucifying pity-me that I am.
Me, I wonder if I grieve for you,
the wound you bear, given as if some awful gift
or do I grieve for me, self-harmed am I in uttering words
that never needed saying.
You say that its okay, what’s done is done
and should not mar our friendship
that you have forgiven me and we should return
to how we used to be, before your trust in me was broken.
You are repaired now or at least you say you are, but me,
I can’t quite forgive myself and I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to do for (my) anguished heartfelt sorry
will never ever be enough, will not repair the harm I’ve done
to self-pitying little me.
For Susan at Poets United whose prompt word is Voice. Cheers Susan!
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia
Author/artist: Andrey Mironov