To whomsoever that it may concern:
I write this as a spirit looking back,
Back, back, to you, and hope that you may learn
The things I couldn’t.
Your ghostly guide, I drift along your course
And stop, and glance at you, your head still down.
“You know, there’s no point still having remorse
For things I couldn’t.”
I saw, I heard, your plaintive, begging cry
For help, for none, for anything at all
Remain unanswered- breathed your sorrowed sigh
For things I couldn’t.
This was your greatest fear, I know; you sink
To nightmared knees and mourn this second chance.
You weren’t- I was supposed to stop, not think
Of things I couldn’t.
Your eyes- they snap awake- was it a dream,
A fantasy, your darkest thoughts to delve?
Or- darker yet- a vision did it seem:
A Letter to Myself.