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Flavours of grief
Aestetics lost.
Regret comes in many shapes and flavours,
Whispers and shouts, mute, empty look, savour not tasted.
Obligation denied, aesthetics refused, pleasure wasted.
I lament and cry over letters not written
Apologies and amends send by death pigeon
Cries and whispers buried in a dungeon
Called by my birth name, my self untamed.
Curved over the passing waters of Thames
Lost in the frigid dark blues of the Arctic,
Surfing the pororoca of the tidality of my regrets
There is more to us that our conscience begets.
And in the end, what substance one really gets?
