For all my constant heart, I've constant dread That follows me round and notes words I've said: When rude to those who do love me well, When kind to cruelty which cannot care, 5 When lofty to the lowest, who can tell, And to attentive love simply "not there," I fear my offence fellows me past death. Green between graves my conscience slithers loath, That would rather gather clouds without a care 10 But that he founders where I fall, I fell, Slunk to death whose life was sparse and spare: Ill-fed by me, by me kept most unwell. So nightmare interleaves each love-word we've said, And conscience spikes with nails our love-bed.
From the collection "Supposing Roses"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.