Poetry

It’s the dogma of the righteous.
It’s the sceptre of the king.
It’s the poison in the chalice.
It’s the axe that madmen swing.
It’s the sorrow for no reason.
It’s the bitterness of tears.
It’s the act without redemption.
It’s the fear, of fear, of fears.
 
It’s the pain of never knowing.
It’s the wound that never heals.
It’s the pressure of the darkness.
It’s your fate that someone seals.
It’s the waking in the morning.
It’s the building-up of silt.
It’s the last gasp of the drowning.
It is guilt, it’s guilt, it’s guilt.