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At Refusal Of Remorse
I knew I could not look upon his face---
not now, not soon, not ever; not again.
I could not even beg forgiving Grace,
for I am too committed to the sin.
I had no faith, therefore it did not fail.
Impatient rage accomplished that betrayal.
It flung the scourge, like scorpion tales, stinging;
and drove into his flesh each rusted nail.
My thoughts of this are multiple, too many,
and altogether not worth one small penny,
much less two. When this is a memory
it will create remorse of a degree
unprecedented, always to assail
my soul. But I refuse . . . and go out swinging.
