I sit here
In the gloom
Of my room
And pick at my soul
Made less whole
By the pieces
I pick from it
Occasionally.
Like sores
From lost lepers
That reveal
Demons
With yellow eyes
And teeth
That feast
On lies.
I do not cry
For my sins
Or begin
To have sympathy
For victims
Lost love
Is lost.
I count not
The cost
Or wonder
If I
Should seek
The sheep
I destroyed
Casually.
I care not
For Dante
Or a world
That is lost
Or the cost
Of my sins
In a web that I cast
At last.
Begone
Ghosts of mine
Give me peace
Or some release
Today
Or tomorrow
From this
My sorrow.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
