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Guilt
Yes, let it be known
that demon
who swims through blood
with needles and foul poisons
opening our deepest wounds
forgotten scars that grimace
from their intestinal gloom
Ripping once again the tattered
blankets, comforters and other
scolded memories emblazoned
on our inner tapestries by
god-fearing sanctimonious
wielders of the tongue and rod
themselves hiding some ancient
wound some tribal curse
Look he rides again the ghastly
painter on his dark-winged steed
daubing his tarry and odorous
design over our brightest panoramas
Glaring as we the carriers of that
ancient virus tease, jeer, scold, whip
in our turn until the furthest generation
© Johnmichael Simon
2013
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