In the mire of predawn
The conscience sways
Through the bends of fever dreams
Guilt trips and forgotten dismay

Past grief emerges
From the churning insides
Coiled by the fatal
Steam of remembrance

Voices
Once deferred from
Follow closely through the muck
Defiantly echoing
Of misfortune and distress

And the bog does not waver
It carries on with no end
Steaming and fuming
And so cruel to reminisce