I can't say sorry enough.
The winds howl in my ears what I have done wrong—
my soul cannot escape its sorrows,
my mind remembers every moment in the silence
that follows every conversation.
Regret follows every move made,
every thought, every word, every sound—
I am not guilt-free, free of conscience, free of mind.
I thought I was, for I had found some peace,
nurtured it for a time.
But then the fertilizer stopped working,
the wells dried, the sun grew dark—
it died as a marigold withers in winter,
cold and alone. Peace now is found in
distractions, endless chores and
endless fights. My hands shake—
is it the cold or the emotion moving them?
Do I tremble from lack of warmth or
lack of hope? Godless, I am, and yet
with a God I am. Forsaken in some ways,
blessed in others. Who can say where my
road shall lead, away from or back to
those I hurt most?