There is no wound like regret,
a festering infection
lingering long past initial cut.
A reminder of its infliction.
Of failed attempts to change course.
Of time squandered
on madness masked as problems.
Of a way once clear and easy to follow.
Now untended, and overgrown,
With pitfalls to spare.
Once surrounded by companions in travel,
Now only a few broken remain;
Too weak, and sick, to clear the path again
So we sit, and obsess,
on festering infections
While the weeds continue to grow.
