regret.1

These are the helpless mutterings of one of time's victims;
I have a voice but lack a face.
I spend my days wishing that
     I could be young again,
          and rearrange my life, godlike
          and all-wise; to construct
     a utopia and revel in the stillness.

These are the things that I once knew but can never known again:
a smile, a sunset's farewell kiss,
a recollection - herald of burning tears.
     I cannot tell you how much it hurts.
          for the pain is not the problem;
          'tis a symptom of a
     more widespread cancer.

These are the helpless mutterings of my wandering memory,
forgetting how to forget, and
tumbling headlong into an ink-black current
     of cemented past lives;
          backwards, upside down,
          eyes stinging with murk and cold -
     but the sensation is worth it for the paradise of what if.

These are the helpless mutterings of one who has lost,
remembering what it's like to remember
without a wince. And my eyes
     are painted with the flowery splinters
          of a thousand shattered paradigms
          amongst the rubbish-heaps of a consciousness
     brimming with ruined dreamscapes.

These are the hours in which I see you once more -
and sometimes those sky-colored
irises resemble something familiar;
     but alas, the world has
          turned its back
          in mocking desertion, and my
     guilt has metamorphosed you into a stranger.

These are the tear-streaked parcels I clutch to my breast;
of the regret of a hundred moons
worth of herb-bitter error.
     It clings like a shroud,
          the fragility of action and consequence:
          for the present has become my poison, love.
     Please, find me an antidote.

These are the helpless mutterings of one of time's victims;
I have a voice but lack a face,
and I spend my days wishing that
     the sun still shined for me,
          and the birds still sang
          in jubilation...
     for I have nothing left but the future.