Anyone who has lived a while,
Accumulated times that should not have been,
Suffers, not from misdirections, not from what was,
But from what was not, but
Never could have been.
 
Deaths, destructions, things missed and unretrieved.
These are the unhealed wounds that ache,
That never heal into scars one can neglect.
They pulse in long nights of memories.
 
Realities are realities, the bones
That minutes, hours flesh with necessities.
One must breathe, eat, sleep and sense
This time alive and react in concert or cease.
There is no easy release.
 
One must accommodate, possess, presume
The sharp blade of fate will not cut deeply,
Miss vitals and slide past what remains.
No doubt there will be blood and fear
But morning may demonstrate one still is here.

 Painting by Jan Sand