“If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” — C.S. Lewis
I sit and think. Of all the maybes. Of all the might-have-beens. Of all the chances missed.
I ponder. All the mistakes. All the thoughtless words. All the reckless choices.
Every slip. Every slide.
Every skid. I slowly die.
How could it have been, if I had just taken the other bend?
What I should have said.
What I should have done.
And I kill myself.
Over every battle I never won.
The world turns yet, day by day.
Humanity ages, slowly fades.
A continual cycle of birth and death,
The cry of life drowned by the last breath.
Tyrants rise and tyrants fall
Brave men die one and all.
Heroes are born and then perish.
Hearts are torn and never mended.
We struggle daily
Each man alone
Our feelings vacant
In a heart of stone.
You cry and wonder why all is flawed.
Beauty marred, perfection ruined.
A crushed rose upon the path… petals torn… its life blood spilt upon the stones.
What a sorry mess you’re in.
The cycle repeats, never breaks.
Yesterday’s mistakes become today’s.
Life rolls on. You see the wrongs. And yet…
How could you recognize that a rose is frail and damaged…
Unless you first had some idea of how a rose ought to look?
…a wisp of thought…a slender hope. But a comfort nonetheless.