Borne Free

A wind of confusion lies down.

Guilty secrets shuffle and slide,

Their grasping tendrils clinging fast,

Then wilting in the heat

From the furnace of comprehension.

My soul is at stake,

A spectral presence drapes itself

Heavily across my shoulders;

I have fallen, I have fallen many times.

Into the light, into the sun,

The lingering succubus of shame,

That in dark recesses hid,

Darts and dies on the dry sands.