Sour To My Taste
When lingering over my past’s cup
Of deep draughts to partake,
The quaffing of old sorrows
Brought changes with self-hate.
But, “what ifs” and “might have beens,”
Life’s pities and mistakes,
Are for some a pleasant world
To view and contemplate.
Such believe there’s no free-will:
Man as tool of fate –
A conceit designed to quell their souls’
Anguish and heartache.
Hence, “what ifs” and “might have beens,”
The pities and mistakes,
Become for them a staff in life,
And complacency a mate.
Yet I believe I hold the sway
My future’s form to state,
Because I see the “might have beens”
As goads to alter fate.
In the dimmest long ago
Lie touchstones of my past:
Actions, styles, and ardor’s glow
Fixed in my memory fast –
For fresh-faces I did know
And shadows I once cast
Live so long as decades flow
From now into the past –
Where I know I too will go.
This life flies by all-too-fast . . .
A pity even so . . .
For mortal minds, how’er so vast,
Must flee with life, and cannot last.