Poem - Regrets
I once met a woman
Who told me that the dead spoke to her.
Was it a gift? I asked.
No, she replied, but a responsibility
Since the dead are the regrets
That no longer have a voice.
But if they no longer have a voice, I asked,
Then how do they speak to you?
By revealing a person’s weakness, she replied.
Tears that slowly fall
Are not normal tears
But a wet reality
Of what they have done.
But should it be hidden? I asked
To keep away the questions
Asked for too long and too repetitive.
The woman was gone -
A ghost of herself -
And all that is left
Are my tears of regret.
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