We do things that seem to be the right things to do,
and we knock our heads against walls,
and we pick ourselves back up,—
and with headaches and bloody scalps,
we start all over again…
We didn’t learn,
we never did learn,
because we were stubborn,
or because we were just fools…
And we knew that tomorrow
we would pick ourselves up again,
and start all over again.
We knew naught else to do.
We thought we would win out
over time,
if only we did not give up or give in.
Naive we were,
foolish and true,
holding steadfast to our dreams,
with the idea, unfounded,
that if we held on,
one day we would make sense of it all.
And on that day it would be seen
to have been worth it all.
That day never came,
nor would it ever,
as a poor boy’s wretched dreams
are wont to be seen through to the end.
And now that boy is at the edge of his time,
September is gone, so is the Fall,
and Winter is here now,
harsh, and cold,
bluster and brash and so cold.
Fears of the unknown are all around,
but the fears of tomorrow are worse
than the knowledge of what may be waiting –
a hole in the ground, or ashes in an urn,
neither will make any difference to the boy now.
What may have been, once,
had never a chance.
I see it now, but then…
well,... I did not understand things then.
I wish that I had but I was too young
and thought I was going the right way.
I was the fool,
and I paid the price for that reasoning,
and today no one would listen to me
if I tried to give my thoughts freely.
My intent would be to save from time wasted,
to save from dreams lost,
to save from things never to be that should be.
No one would listen today,
to the wanderings of an old man.
Sometimes the shadow wins.

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