Regret is Wasteful

Stop.

Can you see?

Listen.

Come the morning, as time draws me from my slumber

and the light taints the safety of my white sheets,

I leave my bed, shaky and unsteady from dreaming.

I slip on my shoes (they are the colour of ivy),

and wipe moonbeams out of the corners of my eyes.

As I step across the floor, I set waves into motion:

a transparent ocean that oscillates with my breathing,

calling out “New day, New day, New day”

Do you see?

Listen.

The sky trails the earth as though she was her mother

and the light kisses the wind as though they were lovers.

And I know that somewhere there has to be another

who can reveal to me the secrets of the summer.

The way she dances up like daisies, feathers in her hair,

and rains sweat across my forehead and down my cheeks.

She walks where others, even the moon, falter

And her words burn skin, seeping down down down

Straight down.

Into my core.

Is it possible?

Can you see?

Listen.

When summer has finally faded and fallen, there survives

a calm peace that is reeling from what was ruined.

As time draws me near once more, words unspoken are sealed

and left for dead in capsules buried in the sand,

awaiting overtures that never come, but always come.

Until at last their song is forgotten and done,

(by the sun, by time, by the waves)

they call out “New day, New day, New day”

Is there still a chance?

Do you see?

Then listen.

Could God himself count grains of sand?

Could you live forever, holding the brand that burns

And calls

New day. New day.

I am old.

Yet young, but still old.

Can you see?