Condemnation is a sculpture, statue,
build upon a pediment on the far side of my room -
a big, electrifying eye scrutinizing my motion,
ringing the siren every time I try to breathe.
Guilt pours tears of desolation and self-deprecation
from a spring built-in just above my bed,
and when I raise my stare, I can only see
the pointing finger piercing the stuffy air of the room.
Distrust is a metronome counting my dreams fallen,
burying them into a silent graveyard below my window -
distrust is a face that turns and masks itself as a smile,
while its eyes betray the only spirit behind -
loss of confidence, at all.
Despair hangs by the door, clad in my ragged and tattered ambitions,
waving with a hand encapsulated by the velvet glove
of smothered desires, of laughter that hides inner desolation -
the wind banging the open windows of the empty room -
and this spirit of despair - a knight of rotting, rusty armour,
wakes me up, past midnight, with a letter from the tax administration
urging me to pay my dues, with interest accrued,
with what is left in the sanctuary under my bed -
this already hollow heart and soul of mine.