Clumsily limping now
along washed-out pale beach strewn
with the bones of now futile hopes
and unrealistic dreams.
Plans so carefully planned out and mapped
now mock in skeletal silence.
Even the sand seems sad.
Where is the so-called solace of time?
Where is the worth in persevering?
When can the hurt be felt to subside
while the cruelty of loneliness rules?
Collections of regret, armloads of distress,
not a scratch yet still physically wounded.
Bleeding profusely from nonexciting wounds,
how can this weakling survive?
Undeserved praise from poorly informed observers
revealing if reality is acknowledged
there is no hero here;
only an inaccurate reporter crying.
Only remorse as shelter, only guilt to hide behind.
Time passing is rumored to reconcile,
as lacking of substance as any fairy tale.
Hunker down in useless self-pity,
limp on both legs at the same time,
craving redemption more than water,
each as unlikely as the other.
Admit even contentedness as unobtainable ,
surrender to distress as companion.
Stop whining and accept your providence as brother;
this fear as inevitable.
No hand will be outreached to rescue,
no angel to absolve you of your sins,
no path not strewn with landmines of failure,
yet you stumble on.