Turning Point

Looking out into myself
reading the lines I have written
thinking of all the thoughts
sprayed on the walls of time
its like riffling through badly penned
pages down the history lane
repetition, backward and forward

Am I watching a pendulum
mock a slow tick-tock swing
knowing what has been done
would never to be erased
was I blind at the creation
of all this pages of intricate design
could I undo what I had done

should I say sorry, I repent
I apologise, it wasn’t meant
To end like that
or should I bear this in silence
smile and wipe the tears away
From an upturn frown
Should I stand here, still

Could I really say
I am glad I wrote it that way?