I watch a flickering screen
On a black and white television,
Where the channel features
Only repeat programs
That are scratchy re-runs
Of malignant memories,
Somehow rearranged
On a zany timeline
As flashes of inconsequence
And ferocious fabricators
Of everlasting shame
And ruinous guilt.
Even the ordinary tilt
Of everyday life
Comes tainted in weird ways
By stains invariably ascribed
To well-intentioned actions
Or innocent negligence,
Bringing an unceasing sense
Of culpability for hurts inflicted,
And ripping open a scar
Of forlorn humiliation.
At the end there is anxiety.
It is time to panic
When I realise that all I am
Is a victim of a theft
Of pride in endeavours.