My sacred home
is no longer my own.
I have no
control.
I can’t even roam
without the silt
of guilt
covering my actions.
There’s no attraction
in what I used to
look forward to.
It’s not sin,
but I can’t rejoice in
anything.
Joy doesn’t ring.
Birds still sing,
but not for me.
The sun still shines,
but, blind,
not for me.

What brings me so low?
I think I know.
I’ve felt it before.
It’s mine to repair
or ignore,
or own