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.