Heavy With Dread
The head is a heavy thing,
especially when burdened by guilt,
a lead balloon
one wears around their neck,
dragging their face and feet
along the ground
as they go about
a solemn and sorry routine.
How are you
to pop such a thing,
filled with falsehoods and hate,
held against others
and for yourself?
So gelatinous tis
with boulders black,
haughty deeds done rashly
tumbling about so fervently
they create a weight
of angry energy,
a powerful punch
of realized wrongs
bringing you to kiss the ground
pleading for peace
of mind and salvation.
If only you had not
grabbed fate by the throat
and throttled it about;
enraged as it is,
you'll never have
a moment's rest.
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