There’re things I didn’t do,

dreams that never came true,

stories untold and forgotten,

words lost, scattered on sand

wiped clean by ocean’s hands

so carelessly cold and cruel.

There are roads not taken,

promised by ancient voices

hidden in the undergrowth

long trodden black and barren.

But what burdens and betrays

in the dark is a light too weak

to cast a shadow. Or perhaps

that bleak ink has long dried,

detached, gleefully turning

silent, leaving behind songs

sweet and sane, struggling to

keep a lone memory intact.

Aye, a heart is its own trap.


Image thanks to: Nikk, via “7 Books About Past Decades That Feel Like Traveling Back in Time”, Electric Lit


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