Wrongs

This bed I made

is cold again tonight.

Been grinding this axe

so long,

I’ve become quite attached

to it.

But, no good can come of that,

my hands are chapped,

my furniture’s cracked,

the house may very well

collapse

from every errant and irrational swing

I took.

My clothes still smell

like a bonfire

years later,

the bridge to you lay in ruins.

I look across the chasm

in clarity,

no more will I miss

the forest for the trees.

You can’t hear me,

and I’ve no one to blame

but myself.

It’s not my hatchet

to bury,

nevertheless, I cast it

into the pit.

Undo

Let’s get down to brass tacks,

I can’t go back,

I can never return

to what once was.

The things I said

in anger and in flippant jest,

hang over your head.

Those raw nerves,

flare up,

and you see red

when you see me,

and I don’t blame you.

A rung bell emanates;

the sound is as free

as the air that carries it,

I can’t beat back

the soundwaves.

What I wouldn’t give

to have superhuman foresight,

to have unflappable thoughtfulness.

To leave fear itself cowering,

to see anger and ignorance

flee from me,

never to rear their ugly heads.

But I must live

with what I’ve done

and what I didn’t do.

I wish I could

take one measly step back,

but I’m not strong enough.