|
Mas Son A Culled
Alot of the past, isn't it?
Shaded with broken moments.
Look out through the stained glass.
Passive discharge, half hearted.
Not quite the intended target,
playing with flowers that end up as stubs.
while distance prods the perfection,
of a time gone past.
I'd give it all back if I could.
Regret nothing becomes the mantra.
Turning reality into intentional design.
Minds flooded with wishes.
Turn this ephemeral embrace into substance
and de-enervate the future into moments,
no longer just endured.
but enjoyed.
__________________
We all choose paths that we know are wrong.
And live with ourselves when the meaning's gone.
Dillinger Four
|
