Dreadthread

Its grown time again,
Pilgrimage
Not of the body,
But of the mind.
Reaching out to impossible places,
That you wish you’d never been.

Rarely, plucking out a certain piece,
Of time where the light shone brightest,
In the darkest of places.

Little gems that sparkle,
Blinking in and out in the haze
That is my mind, my conscious.
Which never sleeps, never quiets.

Live, love and regret.
Sadly, the most prevailing of those three is regret.
But we learn, we live.
And then we learn to love and live to regret.
A sad tale of a beggar,
In psuedo-fashion.

Fog, the rain and the thunder.
So much keeps my attention,
But what should be kept my attention are things alive,
Alive inside of me, still breathing, their hearts still beating,
But lost, lost within all the things I’d rather not have lived,
And everything falls back to the bitter bite of regret.