Listen to poem:
Regrets get a mention
A few return each day
to make me fret
on what I can't forget
is done with, done.
No way back
to make amends
to right the wrongs
to warp the truth
to upend the trends
to reshape the bends
to better the ends.
Swapping heads for tails
starting again
in vain,
in disdain.
Yet still they circle
sly as a fly,
tides that tease,
tug away.
They try
to ask why,
why not,
what might have been,
what could have been—
perhaps,
besides,
the other guise,
to disguise
or deny.
Reality's demise
In the hush of night
It wears my face
Then slips away—
out of place,
out of grace.
Still I wait.
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