Regret is a bitter spice, fit only
to season dishes prepared in the past
by the master chef called Spite,
for future consumption cold
during solitary banquets of colorless dolor,
in the impeccable oneness of years to come,
handmade by our own dumb complicity,
as we sit motionless marching through minutes
of exquisite dimness, folding into hours
of powerfully harrowing shallowness
before listing, and toppling listlessly into days
of sameness, piling up into weeks
of plain, dull pain,
- anesthetized by an endless injection
of the sumptuous numbness of numberless months,
we succumb, and conclude
that in the end -
regret is a bitter spice,
and we ought to find better
ways to season our food.
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years. Try the RANDOM button to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.
*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.