It is there in all that I do,
A lingering odor,
A taste like to rust or to sulphur
Tainting all that I do with an ashen hue
Pale blue-grey sheen of defeat and loss
Time and weight and Duty drown me
Drawing and scraping against my flesh
And my bones,
Smearing me like ink across a page of mistakes
Like regret over the shoulder
I bathe in it