The Dungeon of Contempt

Upon the greatest of achievements
Upon the warmest of hearts
Upon the guilty, and the innocent
There is but a melancholic cry
A mourning of the lost now found
And the found now lost.
And here, in Guilt’s bosom lies
Its accomplice, its ravaging brother
Birthed from Sin, named by Sorrow
The Shame of the soul of man.
For even in Death
When the flesh rots
And the stench of Deceit remains
There is the manifestation of Guilt
Still breathing on the bones.
We hang the bones in the closet
And surrender to the secrecy of the world
Attempting to snuff the life out of Shame
And lock away our Guilt
In the dungeon of our contempt.
But it is only upon the release of Guilt
From its dismal prison
With key in palm
That it dances to the drums of Acceptance
Into a night void of starlit skies
And the closet can be liberated
From the ever mutating accomplice,
The plague of the soul of man,
The Shame for our transgressions.