Confession

yusuf achmad

Rain cascades over weary eyes,
but it cannot quench the drought of sorrow.
A multitude of regrets flood the soul,
yet they fail to unlock the iron gates of the mind,
where thoughts decay like festering maggots,
spoiled and hidden from the light.

Between twin pillars, a shadow looms—
a rancid corpse,
its stench curling the air with putrid echoes.
Not even a fleeting glance is spared
for its bitter, acrid rot.
A cricket’s singed shell, forgotten and crushed,
its funeral marked by silence and ash.
The air thickens with the smell of repentance,
a fetid lament of battles lost,
of dignity trampled underfoot.
The corpse stands still, unfeeling,
its defeat carved into its silent decay.

And still, I am here—
my actions spiraling far beyond the boundaries of grace.
Yet my love, I plead:
Will you meet me where time halts?
Will you see me through this endless rain?