Regret I hold like a wilting rose,
pale and leached of all color,
for what good is my piteous maudlin view,
of what past did, and how I review its lingering.
Blame no use, for justice served,
by time’s relentless ongoing,
and what’s for you can’t pass by you,
so why do I keep imploring, a different result?
Regret is like standing on a precipice,
past all fallen into the void below,
so do I jump or perhaps step back,
for no future lies in that brink.
For now knows no wilting rose,
it is vibrant red, petals unfurled to greet the sun,
and so must I afford the future,
where growth is all that feeds a soul, ghosts in slumber.
Who was I then, this man that failed and failed,
he seems like a distant relative,
and now regret just a pang of old,
a mistaken lull in my receptive mind.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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