Don't say nothing

The Ballad of the Unfinished Task 
 
Of burdens borne and shadows deep, 
A weight that would not let me sleep, 
A looming fate, a constant dread, 
The heavy phrase that hung o'er head. 
It was not built of stone or steel, 
But woven tight from what was real, 
A thread of worry, fine and strong, 
That whispered where I went so wrong. 
 
The hero of this somber tale, 
Whose spirit felt the constant gale, 
Was burdened by a deed undone, 
Beneath the gaze of setting sun. 
No dragon fierce, no giant tall, 
Did threaten with a sudden fall, 
But something slower, more profound, 
Upon his weary spirit bound. 
 
For in the chambers of the past, 
A seed of error had been cast. 
A word unspoken, swift and rash, 
A moment lost in hurried crash. 
A promise broken, light and slight, 
That now obscured the purest light. 
This hidden fault, this secret stain, 
Brought forth a never ending rain. 
 
The idiom, a chilling sign, 
Of pressure that was wholly mine. 
Hanging over, like the sword 
That Damocles so long adored. 
It stretched across the days so bright, 
And stole the comfort of the night. 
Each sunrise brought the fresh recall, 
Of that dark shadow standing tall. 
 
The world moved on in vibrant hue, 
With laughter ringing clear and true, 
But he, the subject of this plight, 
Saw only shades of gray and blight. 
The joyful song, the friendly jest, 
Could bring no solace to his breast. 
For in the quiet of his soul, 
The unresolved did take its toll. 
 
He tried to build, to plant, to sow, 
To watch the seeds of progress grow, 
But ever present, close and near, 
That silent source of rising fear. 
The unfinished ledger, pages blank, 
The ship that lingered by the bank, 
The crucial call he failed to make, 
For his own troubled spirit’s sake. 
 
The elders spoke of trials great, 
Of battles met with strength and fate, 
Of armies clashed on dusty fields, 
Where victory its glory yields. 
But this was war within the mind, 
A foe that always stayed behind, 
That whispered tales of what might be, 
If he but faced the certainty. 
 
The weight increased with every week, 
The words he wished to truly speak 
Were choked by vines of self-reproach, 
A pressure that refused to encroach 
Upon the surface, calm and set, 
But where the deepest fears were met. 
The sense of dread, a chilling mist, 
By memory’s cold finger kissed. 
 
He saw the faces of the wronged, 
The path where true contentment thronged, 
And knew the key to set him free, 
Lay in resolving what used to be. 
The threat was not of sudden doom, 
But slow erosion in the room 
Where peace should dwell, where joy should bloom, 
Consuming all within the gloom. 
 re called, 
The judgment that his conscience walled 
Him off from friendship, trust, and grace, 
A haunted look upon his face. 
The trial that never reached the stage, 
But turned within life’s inner page, 
The stress relentless, 
Of something hidden, yet unseen. 
Myth
Insongwast 
Did time

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