BRITNEYS SPEAR

An apple shaped wake
drowns the mistakes
in a pitiless lake
of obvious mistakes

The core is laden
with the seeds of accountability
as it twists it's way
deeper into the pastures of regret

I can no longer harvest my soul
A terrible famine is coming
I am without preparation
As locust rape my weakness

Old ghosts are quiet in resurrection
to forgive is not to forget
I am the slave to dormant anger
I stand shaking alone in it's shadow