Guilt

Of indigo is its weave,
Looming shapes, refusing to leave,
Murmuring in an ear,
A cruel twisted leer,
Gate screeching for it to pass,
Always there, slight or in mass,
Smell of rust, of bitter spice,
Shrouded in disgust for a vice,
Lingering bitter, herb and metal,
Taste not refusing to settle,
On all sides, but visible from none,
Creeping vines, growing never done,
Wounds never close,
Guilt arose.