The Guilt

A guilt immeasurable,
Born from knowing,
My life remains immutable;
Unchanged at your coming.

Your momentous entrance,
Into this world unforgiving,
Mere ripple on the surface,
Not an upheaval, shattering.

Life goes on extant,
In undisturbed placidity, though,
Your love, my tender infant,
Does indeed lead priority.

Your sparkling smile, your glowing visage,
Momentarily soothes a guilt-ridden soul,
Still I cling to the dreary baggage,
Of every unrealizable goal.

Self-absorption continues,
Unabated in intensity,
Motherly sacrifices don’t imbue,
My profligate propensity.

Tears fail to rend my calm,
Pleadings don’t beseech,
Wracking sobs don’t twist my arm,
As for the door I reach.

Muttering sweet banalities,
Disappearing, thirteen daily hours,
Complacent about your ephemeral memories,
Confident about your resilient powers.

Only the burden on my soul;
The immeasurable guilt,
Will never let me feel whole,
Just guilt-ridden to the hilt.

© Pragya Thakur

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