.

Count the numerous paths I have never taken;

They reflect in the glass of a tainted window

Or is it in my eyes that I see them broken?

Let me lie in the shade of the old tree’s meadow

.

As notes die in the air, I feel the aftertaste

Of sugar in the lime, light on my tongue, heavy;

The song must now conclude, the script shall go to waste

As each potential reel fakes another prelude.

.

I have seen the future and yet live in the past,

Silence melts the dischord symphony in no blast,

The voice finally breaks, in time even ink fades…

.

The screen goes back to black, the race comes to a close,

The moment is over: anew the river flows,

And I feel the prickle of a myriad sharp blades.

.

The name of this poem came to me as it was almost upon completion – wherefrom, I know not.