It's hard to slow the thoughts
Of an over active mind, caught in a moment
Running it again and again
That one precious memory, a watershed event
There a slip on the pavement, rust in the chain mail
In pride's armour, a dent
Brought low by the innocent slip of a loaded tongue
Or a pen dipped in poisoned ink and dragged
Across my soul
Bitter like the taste of ashes in my mouth
A gaping wound, yet a bloodless hole
How easy to walk the shoes into the ground
Prepare that journey for another
It's not yours, you're the interloper
Tiding them over until they find feet of their own
And march without you to somewhere new
Leaving you with your head in grey clouds
And your soul battered and black and blue.
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