What if,
by the time I am forty
all I have are black curtains
preventing sunlight
from coming in;
or a full-time job
on a minimum wage?

What if I lose all
my possession in a fire
caused by a cigarette
I didn't put out properly;
what if all my files
were wiped out
due to faulty hardrive?

Would love still show
it's face around these parts?
Or would love walk
around wounded, looking
to score a fix?

Does redemption
exist for a man
with guilt-ridden fists?

A man with nothing to lose,

and nothing to gain

once the world ends.

What if by the time I'm fifty,
all the progress I made
regresses, and the house
I built collapses,

and every detail

I kissed with *****,

chapped lips,

loses it's preciousness?

If I don't let go of the past now,

it only repeats itself over

and over in the present.

The current state of events

is last year's confession.