Regret by John Casteen
This life, it is like conducting
the symphony of a warring country;
the cellist has been shot through the wrist it’s all in,
the horn player has buried his child
and sworn off music.
The conductor will never hear his piece as he hears it.
Sometimes I wake between three and four, these winter nights,
clenching tightly the what-is-not-there,
and I can’t negotiate with that kind of failure.
Outside the wind is roaring at the house.
I had to throw away someone I loved.
The thing that I said at first, about the conductor?
Such a man has no cause to expect redemption.
Fine. So I’ll never understand anything.
So this life, it’s never going to explain anything.
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