Every moment sitting here,
lying seared in constant fear,
lights an action deep within —
explosions drawing on my sin.
There is no hope of alibi,
no sensibility to cry;
though I have wished for the ability,
my tears stay locked inside of me.
Oh, that time could be remade —
I would have had another say.
But with every action bearing consequence,
just fear remains, with hopeless penitence.