A separation from the cause of its current state, must be agonizing.
Yet, the victim is always the one scarred,
so maybe I won't be reminisced,
rather an undesired memory-
the invasive reminder.
I'm a ruiner.
Detained by distracted hands,
busy building mechanisms that work against me.
So dissociated from my destruction, I plunge through every instance with a rage to escape,
never caring to clean up.
A mandatory return is insult to injury,
but it's the surrounding that are scathed.
Selfishness never sought to sooth, and now I sit in my own rubble, saying sorry too late to solidify any past avulsions.
Stains, a mother's tears couldn't even remove, have been smeared, writing out in abstraction that no supplement can wash away this dirt, so deeply rooted -spread- to where I can no longer catalogue the starting point, and I am cursed to inhabit my mutilated maze, making order impossible.
All I can I do is move my mess-
packing away my life, only mine,
the other beings belong at base,
even though I brought them to the chase.
A haste
horribly invokes the recitation of,
"No, Berba, I cannot throw you the ball"
Finalizing to take off,
and my room will still corner creatures meant to glide in freedom.
I see, now, how mistakes continue to live on.
A Suffering from limitation,
My upcoming launch will be a rushing abrasion of relentless aspiration to right
the wrongs of man:
my own mistreatments upon my manor.
I've gained morality through realizing atrocities,
and waiting to leave, I give a promise to return with reparations