The Sullied Self

The Sullied Self long poem

Photo by David Locke


It is night again,
And the darkness wakes it all up.
Rooms left to collect,
the dust of Fault and dissent,
and the Forgotten madness of bygone days.
We have created so much with nothing,
And done nothing with so much.
Are we all souls in repair?
As the dream of ourselves
staggers with the weight of our sins.
We shuttle and store
the shame of disgrace
bled from veins of vice,
and the echoes of error
is an endless replay.

The conflict continues,
while our power splinters
and our dignity fragment.
The Sullied Self will sink
too fast to be saved.
We mourn the death of innocence,
the freedom of inexperience,
and grieve for a time departed.

Are we damned by tales of our past
and haunted by what we’ve done?
Does it all fracture the sum
of me, and who I’ve become?
We are buried beneath the wreckage of ruin;
Virtue charred black is
the price paid for folly.

Am I forever condemned
to call my differences broken parts of me?
Do the grooves of my flaws
rot the definition of me?
Can I sweep the dark corners
that reside within me?
Or eternally doomed in hell,
as the Sullied self?

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