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Turn it over.
Turn it over.
Turn it over again.
You can’t let it lie.
So small
But so big.
You can’t rest
Till it’s solved;
Can’t sleep in the knowledge
Of imperfection,
Your fear and loathing in self-ness.
You rest less
In the bed you made
And huddle in the fading light
Of the afterglow of your favour;
Dispersing, moving,
Turning.
Away.
In disgust.
At the scab that’s left behind.
Your own judge and jury,
You hung yourself from your yardarm
Before your own verdict
And vote of no self-confidence.
You have no pity,
No compassion.
No soul left.
It’s too late to save you
From yourself.
Too late to save you.
You have no mercy.
You have no mercy.
You have no mercy.
But you have yourself.
Written c. 2010
