regret
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I write to visit the pain,to trace the joy I’ve known,when people stood at my side,their voices clear, their faces near. It’s easier to live in the echoesof what has been,to shape the past with words,than to step into the unknown—where joy and pain are strangers,and I am alone. The future whispers promises,but its
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Capaldi weeps for nothing.I shuffle forward in the queue of the dead,never once lifting my head,feeling I should create for something. Emperor penguins,a waiting room—life and death strung on a clothesline,attire we wear to tear yet still look fine. Morning clock strikes noon.Motors purr, then roar, then still.Now becomes soon.Restlessness makes for ill. Scurry
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“Life, it’s falling, stumbling, leaving marks…“ Life is a series of snippets—like 30-second commercials selling us narratives about ourselves, to ourselves, and to others. Saturday, Rainless. The day hung heavy with the promise of rain, yielding only sweat. I had been to Los Angeles, left a message, texted early, and answered your call with silence
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I am a pillar of salt,frozen in place,looking back on a lifeI cannot retrace. Salt the ground beneath my feet,cast out for lack of taste,a barren void of withered seed,choked by ash and sinful waste. The heavens pour,mercy’s rain falls still—a gift for the righteousand sinners who will.Yet I dissolve, grain by grain,a quiet
BB Grey--musings 