The Pathetic Poet

Memory Lane

Everyone walks a path.

From the moment they were born.

There is no math.

Or beauty worn.

Destiny is myth.

Fate is legend.

Life isn't to be trifled with.

That is a line that won't bend.

There are many opportunities.

All in the future.

It is all a part of the many realities.

That is what makes it pure.

But instead of looking at what is to come,

I am caught looking at what is done.

With a tankard of rum,

From everything I run.

I sit in the dark,

Thinking about right and wrong.

There is no mark,

To show whether it be wrong.

I am not wise.

I cannot determine.

I have reached my demise.

I have stepped on a mine.

I dwell on the past.

As if it were my hobby.

With its own cast,

They do not wait in the lobby.

It plays when I ask.

Wherever it may be.

With each its own task.

Unlocked by its own key.

This path is tainted.

Haunted by many events.

It was painted,

By horrible gents.

I constantly look back.

There were good and bad.

Too much to hack.

As if there were none to be had.

I sit there and I dwell.

In joy or in pain,

In heaven or hell,

I am lost in memory lane.