yabs

In abysmal thought

Of events from my immediate past

Wondering if I had been a bigot

Blinded and prejudiced by my fear

A perspective obscured

By my own self-righteous certainty

My mind in garrulous conflict

My tongue in sedated secrecy

My actions, decisions and emotions

Seemingly impassive in their eyes

Unknown to them is this anguish

I release behind closed doors

Unknown to them is my accolade

Of their pure naiveté

Their sweet innocence

That I no longer find in myself

A freedom I no longer hold

My mind, polluted by trepidation

Aged to a dreadful wretchedness

A latrine of the intellectual and foul