Torn regrets

are intentions never met,

the should have’s, would have’s,  could have’s.

We are incomplete,

our expectations, malformed.

Our dreams, evanescent,

are wisps of amorphous smoke,

curling and stretching to the sky,

only to be lost,

only to disappear.

What do we know?

Trying to make sense of the senseless,

trying to read the illegible,

to perfect the imperfect,

are hopeless endeavors.

Pain is life.

The alternative is nonexistent.