The Yoke Named Regret

My sins, a rusted yoke, I carry on the grounds that refuse to soak. Each hole hidden in brown water, I step in and sprain my ankles. As I roam with the wooden collar, I struggle to find hope in shackles. Living with a fallen guillotine, my heartbeat: the same symphony, wandering without the hope of freedom, castrated from happiness, all footprints sign a question mark; continue roaming the empty marshes or prepare the grave for my bed. I walk with a broken back. Wishing to take my choices back.