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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