by Stephen Atkinson

Created on: April 18, 2008

A beating heart, in furious rhythm
burns with a darkened knowledge,
of something that dims the soul,
and the spirit as well

What is it that dogs a man
and offers no relief,
what is it, he asks,
knowing full well

A line is crossed, immorally so
and with it comes the price to pay
in currency of little value,
but to you, and to me

Why does the active mind
cast a shroud upon the pain,

felt in the heat of day,
and in the dark of night

Wherever I travel, my companion goes,
unwelcome, but still there
beside me, within me,
advising me to care

Turning my head, shunning all calls
never alone, never at peace,
who is this persistent rider
tugging at my sleeves

When finally to home, searching
for the elusive balm
to calm the aches, and the strains,
though more is surely to come

Humbling oneself is not the joy,
nor the way for men to go
but, 'tis the only way
for a man to show

He understands the pain caused,
his realization is quite clear,
with head held high, and eyes,
that look upon the scene

unfolding in the presence,
of the one he loves the most,
to say simply, I am sorry,
for the pain I have caused

to one who knows me well,
not once did you doubt me,
though the reasons were near,
for the gift you offer is priceless

that which may not be denied,
I am truly sorry, I deserve the worst,
yet, you give the gift of redemption,
once more, may I live

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