Have done with guilt, the venom of the mind,
The poison of the past, distilled in tears
Which strikes the mourner deaf and dumb and blind,
Condemns him to relive his wayward years.
Throughout our lives, we all make our mistakes
And often hurt another in our haste,
And every man a love at times forsakes
Which in a younger day that man embraced.
A misplaced hope, a callous word or deed,
The thorny paths of error and oversight,
Though painful in their passing, often lead
To wisdom which may set the journey right.
So sheath your guilt and claim your due, my friend;
Mistakes mark a beginning, not the end.
George Chadderdon © 1996