To Make Break

I held on to things
Which seemingly cauterized my wounds.
They built plagues upon me,
Sounding awful even in name alone.
I never thought a thought
Could cure my actions.
But to make break a way's off,
I could have become more.

Resting on isles off the coast of blindness,
I made a pact with a pack
Of wolves that hid in the company of friends.
It is an ill-thought out pact,
One which destroyed my being.
But I had no say in what I did,
For I had no control over what I did.

Aptitude did point towards a rougher life,
I couldn't make bend to rules otherwise.
That was who I was. A damned.
But who am I now,
If not a better person?
Or am I still just as lost?
Am I still just me?

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[Red Brick Keshner]

In whichever situation or circumstance we are found, ourselves we are neither lost nor damned. But that is just a thought and perhaps accompanying this wonderful poem.