Veils of Past Hours
Gossamer threads weave through time
Catching whispers of what was mine
Each a hymn of yesteryears' regret
Sung with a melody I can't forget
The paths untaken gloom and glitter
Their shadows over the present flitter
Ghosts that dance in silent jest
In the theatre of my unspoken behest
Mistakes that in my heart are furled
Like tattered flags, still unfurled
Colour the twilight of my intent
With hues that speak of days misspent
Yet through this rueful reverie
Glimmers a truth that sets me free
Making peace with the time that's gone
Heralds a dawn to be drawn upon
So, regrets, be but a soft-tread muse
Not chains of sorrow to abuse
In your echo, I find a guiding light
Through the veils of past hours, into the night
Whispered Adieus
Silent are the words I never spoke
Left unsaid as heavy hearts broke
Now adrift upon a sea of should-have-beens
The sound of retreating, quiet keens
Behind locked lips, confessions hide
The truths unearthed by a rising tide
Of time that swept away the chance
To mend the seams of circumstance
The echo of 'farewell' left unwhispered
Now a bitter draft, cold and sequestered
In the hollows where warmth might have flowed
Had I just let my silent words go
Displays of heart felt through action and gesture
Yet voids unfilled by absence of lecture
Would faith have grown from verbal seed?
Or are words just hollow, lacking deed?
The deeds are many, the words - too few
Regret in every whispered adieu
In longing to rewrite every scene
With courage where silence had been.
The Garden of Days
We tend the garden of our days
Planting seeds of love, of praise
But thorns of regret grow untamed
Among the blooms, they remain unnamed
The weeds of wistful retrospection
Strangle joy with their harsh deception
Blooms wilt under the burden of the past
In the shadow of mistakes that last
I nurture memories that regret fuels
Watering them with the tears of fools
Yet know inside this diligent care
Sprouts the hope of fresher air
A garden is a living thing, not stone
It buds and withers, overgrown
Yet from the earth, new life can break
New chances rise for us to take
This garden of days, with regret rife
Teaches the art of pruning life
To cut away the sorrow's shrill
And let the heart with sunlight fill
Chronicles of Rue
Beneath the parchment of my skin,
Ink flows, chronicling sin,
Words of regret, deeply scribed,
In a text that cannot be bribed.
Dusky whispers etched at night,
Recording every lost fight,
Narratives of might-have-been,
Folded neatly, tucked within.
Each chapter a convergence of faults,
Sealed with time's unyielding vaults,
I read the script with eyes now wise,
Understanding's dawn in disguise.
Yet no plot is ever entirely grim,
For redemption's light at the horizon's rim,
Can illuminate the darkest script,
Unbind the tales that guilt has gripped.
Regret's volume might never close,
But progressive tales juxtapose,
On pages fresh, the future's hue,
Writes over the chronicles of rue.
Forgotten Echoes
Echoes fade in the halls of time,
Forgotten words of a forgotten rhyme,
The should-have-saids, a quiet roar,
Lost in the labyrinth evermore.
Trembling echoes, once so strong,
Now just whispers that don't last long,
Their messages, once crystal clear,
Muddle as the past draws near.
Yet sometimes silence breeds insight,
Turning echoes into light,
For what's unsaid can also heal,
In the space where dreams are real.
The echoes might be lost in flight,
Swept away by oblique night,
But in silence, they fiercely glow,
Guiding where we need to go.
So let regrets be as echoes past,
Diminish they shall, to the last,
Replaced by a truth that will resonate,
Forgotten echoes we need not recreate.
Palette of Remorse
Each regret a different shade,
On life's canvas, clumsily laid,
Creating art from mistakes made,
In the palette of remorse, displayed.
With each stroke, a hope to erase,
But time's paintbrush cannot deface,
The spectral hues of a past misplaced,
High upon the heart's mantelpiece braced.
Mixing sorrows with tears diluted,
Abstract scenes since time's muted,
Yet within the tones, beauty disputed,
A whisper of grace, craftily rooted.
The art of regret, complexly spun,
Is never truly finished or done,
An opus of lessons, hard-won,
Under the scrutiny of the internal sun.
Regret's canvas, ever-changing scene,
Now captures the glow of a dream serene,
Brighter shades in between,
Give life to a vibrant, unseen sheen.
Regret's Quiet Room
In the quiet room of my mind,
Where regret and contemplation are entwined,
The doors creak open to the past,
I enter, knowing it may last.
Within these walls, mistakes are guests,
Arriving unbidden, in somber vests,
Their whispers hiss of different choices,
Drowned out by the heart's stronger voices.
Each corner filled with 'if only' cries,
The air charged with all the whys,
Yet each sorrow, time's gentle sweep,
Reveals a place for wisdom to seep.
For in the quiet, understanding grows,
The seed of acceptance prose,
A story of a human thread,
Regret and peace, simultaneously bred.
I leave the room, close the door,
A grain wiser than before,
Embracing now, what can't be changed,
In life's tapestry, rearranged.
The Hourglass of Iteration
The grains of sand that slip away,
Each one a moment from yesterday,
In the hourglass of iteration,
Lies the sediment of my hesitation.
Countless grains, a mountain of chance,
Moments missed as if in a trance,
Now compiled in regret's deep sands,
Countless in the hourglass's hands.
Yet flip the glass and time restarts,
Offering new roles, fresh starts,
With each turn, create, not bemoan,
The weight of sand that's downward sown.
This hourglass, with its shifting tide,
Teaches the art of putting aside,
The heavy stones of yesteryears' plight,
For grains of hope, emergent and light.
So, let each grain assert its power,
To cleanse, not sour; to build a tower,
Of nows and nevers interweaved,
In the hourglass, belief is conceived.
The Sculptor's Regret
In the marble of time, I carve my way,
With chisel strikes that cannot sway,
The sculptor's regret - the stony regret,
Of forms imperfectly set.
For every line drawn in haste,
Every curve that lacked grace,
Is a mark of frailty hard embraced,
In the sculpture of my life, placed.
The statue stands, incomplete and proud,
Each blemish unwrapped, unshrouded,
This monument to the undone,
Is a testament of battles none.
Yet within imperfect cuts, life dwells,
Stories that the sinew tells,
Beyond regret, beauty thrives,
Carved by a thousand lives.
To tame regret, the sculptor learns,
Every mistake, a lesson earned,
In marble flaws, a history bright,
Of each wrong turned into right.
Sea of Atonement
The waves of regret lap at the shore,
Receding softly, returning for more,
It's a sea of atonement I can't sail,
Deeper than my resolve, so frail.
Each tide brings back yesteryear's debris,
Entwined in the seaweed memories,
Remnants of choices forevermore,
Scattered along the remorseful shore.
I walk the sands with barefoot steps,
Reading messages that the water kept,
Smooth pebbles of hope among the rift,
As tides of forgiveness seek to lift.
The ocean vast of my bygone faults,
Held in waves and deep sea vaults,
Is also home to pearls of gain,
Bathed in wisdom's saline rain.
This sea of atonement, in its expanse,
Knows too the sun's redemptive dance,
For with each dawn, anew I see,
The horizon of possibility.
