A bad reputation is raw eggs,
cracked, spilled,
splattered across a soul.
Its stench lingers,
thickens,
fouls the air as days unfold.

A bad reputation is a garment —
an appalling apparel,
clinging to the wayward.
The wearer feels nothing,
but the world sees everything:
eyes pierced, ears ringing
with the echo of disgrace.

Just a slip —
a drift from sanity,
a step from morality —
and the pit of hell gapes open.
Years of diligence and decent growth,
collapse in a single breath,
unhallowed and swallowed whole by shame.

Now, who shall rebuild
the shattered rocks,
those monuments
slowly raised by Mother Earth?

Oh! Tell me, who can restore
what time itself constructed —
the weight of years,
the dignity of trust —
once broken into dust?

Dedicated to Dickson Omukoro Esq., PhD a man of high moral standards, who believes in holding unto a good reputation at all costs.