If hindsight looked,
towards the sunrise's first rays,
we’d dress our wounds before the injury,
And understand the bruise
long before the blow,
naming each mistake before it’s made,
yet still,
somehow, we’d choose the road
not
less traveled
and it leads toward ruin,
It's soft and paved.
Because we are a backward breed.
We sit on all sense, we dull it
letting impulse wear the sharper crown;
a throne of nerve, a borrowed high,
while reason’s voice is muffled down
under unheard sigh.
And later, always later
reflection
if the mind carries conscience
we become the scholars of our shame
reciting
what we could have seen.
Oh, brilliant fools with second sight,
who only see when vision’s gone
we learn to read the dark at night,
but trip half blinded
through
this daylight
how tragic it is that we grow old to soon,
yet learn to late.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 2:09 PM UTC
If hindsight looked,
towards the sunrise's first rays,
we’d dress our wounds before the injury,
And understand the bruise
long before the blow,
naming each mistake before it’s made,
yet still,
somehow, we’d choose the road
not
less traveled
and it leads toward ruin,
It's soft and paved.
Because we are a backward breed.
We sit on all sense, we dull it
letting impulse wear the sharper crown;
a throne of nerve, a borrowed high,
while reason’s voice is muffled down
under unheard sigh.
And later, always later
reflection
if the mind carries conscience
we become the scholars of our shame
reciting
what we could have seen.
Oh, brilliant fools with second sight,
who only see when vision’s gone
we learn to read the dark at night,
but trip half blinded
through
this daylight
how tragic it is that we grow old to soon,
yet learn to late.
