Wednesday, March 04, 2009



You are another regret
in a life of regrets,
another wound that healed

but left its mark,
its scar to remind me
where I once hurt.


Life may be defined
by those we love,
those we used to love,

those we will love.
All the rest is empty,
the meaningless dream.


I have never plucked the rose,
not for fear of thorn
but that I would love too much;

when her sweetness faded
from the fickle air,
would I still be?


Time is our sole road
through the eternal desert;
nothing lives nor dies

beyond its pavements;
nothing loves nor hurts
unless it travel onward.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

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