Penance

Seven lashings form from the silence,
Each stroke beating down my conscience,
Intending to do what is right,
Only for those I love to deem it wrong,
With all these grievances taking flight.
Stillness found in my sentence,
No more am I found as good company,
Branded by the sickness of destitution,
Wherein my non-existence is absolution.
Shutting out their vindictive nuances,
Finding peaceful company in misanthropy,
Penance given in due recourse,
As loneliness is all I am given.