Wearing Sackcloth and Ashes
Am I sorry for what I did? Yes, of course.
I’m full of contrition, regret and remorse.
I’ve asked myself, Why? but I cannot explain;
with hindsight I know I had nothing to gain.
I’m chastened and penitent, suffering grief,
reproaching myself with renewed disbelief.
I’m licking my wounds and still nursing the pain.
I deserve the rebukes, the looks of disdain.
My conscience is stricken; I have to atone,
do penance and grovel. The fault is my own.
I rue that day now. Had I gone quite insane?
It’s poetic justice: I cannot complain.
They say that confession is good for the soul,
but humble repentance has taken its toll.
I’m sadder but wiser; from this ascertain
--it’s quite safe to say I won’t do it again!
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