Bequeathed Guilt
by Odin Roark

We’ve all received it,
That lick-sealed message,
Coming sometimes in toss-and-turn slumber,
Often in the postbox,
Occasionally from the mouths of babes.

The purpose is obvious;
Let he who is without sin
Cast the first stone…
The etcetera-etcetera-share-of-the-darkness rubbish.

“Dear Innocence
Can’t have that
Can we?”
And we buy into it
‘til we can’t
‘til our coffined past
Is lowered ceremoniously down
Enjoining more of that etcetera-etcetera.

By that point in one’s short time,
Many messages have been absorbed,
Or at least dutifully read.
Many received through unleavened dreams,
Those lifeless anomalies often made repetitive
Through the mouths of once childish angst,
Morphing into our own adultish mea culpa.

Like a carousel made liquid,
We swirl ourselves into frenzied confessions,
Convinced the off-key calliope noise in our heads
Is but our own self-loathing,
Our distorted sense of right and wrong
Continuing to melt into a vaporous dissonance.

With game-time running out,
Circuitous movement slowing down,
The merry-go-round grip of our youth
Becomes but a damp afterthought
Hanging precariously from the cheek of another deliverance,
The never-evolving child looking down at perpetuity,
Pausing before flinging the next shovelful.

So scatters the cyclic existence,
The ongoing self-burial with bequeathed guilt,
Made so blamelessly deserved,
Perpetuating what was, is, and will continue to be.