I stopped today beside the road
that I had never taken;
I gazed along those verdant slopes
at what I had forsaken.
My broken spots pulled hard toward
‘what ifs’ and ‘might have beens’ –
My heart was caught and hung upon
the fence where doubt begins.
I cannot walk along that path,
my choices barred its entry;
I’ll never know its final trail,
so Grace will be its sentry.
When she can’t hold them (the sheer
weight of burdened hypotheses) they
fall, a ticker-tape parade of broken
dreams
pregnant with remorse. And even then,
they cling like maggots, feeding
on death, slavering in the frenzy; she
accepts the onslaught as necessary
(even natural), as a part of her due
for past errors, flagellation
working mystical redemption
on her Prometheus soul. She
will allow herself one hour
by the hands of
the hall clock before she expels
the notion; dry-eyed
and encased in armour
she will complete
the month’s living,
counting the moments
in heaps until her
next breakdown.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 