Sorry

Sure, I worked as a slave to Time
And knew his bullwhip's vicious touch
But didn't know who punished me
Or why my shoulders hurt so much

He rode me like a motorbike
On some mad ride through towns in flames.
My mind and body tensed with overwork
Till I could hardly say my children's names

And, maddened by his rhythmic lash,
Sometimes struck out at those I met
And hurt the innocent and weak —
I am still scarred by that regret.

Copyright © 2004 Adrian Mitchell All rights reserved
from The Shadow Knows
Bloodaxe Books/Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission