Conscience is my prison;

my silence devoured.

I am bound,

like an umbilical

around the neck of the dead fetus,

tied to my wanderings

and my pleasures.

Remorse is a luxury

for the forgotten hero

who follows the garbage bins

along main street.

I cannot linger with angst,

in the wrong of life;

conscience is my prison,

the prison of my conscience

We discover, as we age,

that we are not immortal,

that we cannot undo

the things we’ve done.

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