To waste your passions chasing chaff, and die
a woeful bitter dud, has got to be
a sorrow-filled black hole. While angels cry,
medals are stripped, and the slap and decree
of everlasting shame hangs on your cheek.
A moment of clarity, while still here,
shows your predicament, and gives a peek
what must be done to set aright your sphere.
You must believe, though you can't see or prove,
you have a debt, for which you must atone.
Made up of years of lies and cheats that you've
excused as true, the cess is yours alone.
Each day, all day, re-focus is the rule,
until you clear the dreck from spirit's jewel.