If something could be done about the pain my words bring,
It certainly would not be by my own will.
You have seen my wickedness.
Soothing it with smoke neither calmed it nor distracted it from it's target.
It threatened the very days I had left with no consolation.
It only left a bad taste in my mouth, yet to be outgrown in time.
My questions go unanswered like many have complained before,
But I never want to admit how weak and foolish the heart is in secret.
It's dormant on the best of days.