Nostalgia

The golden days are memories of never-realized times,

The charges are realities of over-paid-for crimes,

But though despair may find me alone and obsolete,

I’ll never dare forget her hair that brushed against my cheek.

Youth and provocation walk always hand-in-hand,

But never did my wayward feet attempt to kick the can

Until of late in sorrow I’ve drowned my waking hours,

Remorseful of the chance I spurned to have my soul devoured.

I’d rather be a wraith and called you once my own,

Then thrive in all but spirit in this house that’s not my home,

But choice and second chances are few and far between,

And so I’ll die here dreaming how you could have been my queen.