The years flew by, it’s the end of the line
Do you regret the wasted time?
The hours and minutes that bled into night
While you sat thinking all was right.
Having never felt horrid, gut-knotting fear
You wrote of grief with forc-ed tears.
You say you’re a savior, but it’s you who’s in need:
Sheltered, shallow afraid to see.
As you try to make the pieces meet
The carpet is jerked from under your feet.
The pain sets in, and you at last understand.
But now that you know, you no longer can
Stand up, dust off, write your poem’s first line
About how much you wish you hadn’t wasted your time.
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