You punish yourself
for not becoming a naught.
The triumph had
destroyed you completely.

A seductive purr
of a surrogate write,
wants to lift your parameters
without attribution.

A vague integrity was
choking the vitals.
The defeat was within.
You failed to accept the judgement.

Rendered clean after
the bristled attack, your shirt
does not show stains
of slurred concentrate.

The guilt was not the same.
It was the ephemeral moon.
Night was not going to wait.
I was not ready to sin.