Stories we Tell Ourselves

Things that were

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Some nights when the moon speckles
And some nights when the stars sparkle
And thieves prowl, the owl hoots
And crickets chirp, cockroaches scuttle
I wake up with a fervour, or still in bed
Pining for things, things long gone
Pining for things that were.

Of Sandra’s love, young and naïve
A loving, for love’s sake
The baby names we chose
Her daughter – Imani – faith, steady
My son – Jabali – strong as a rock
A bad dream again? She asks
Yes, I lie; just as I lied to Sandra.

Some days when the morning is misty
And some days when I am but lazy
My mind drifts to a younger self
When all I had were beautiful dreams
And life had a purpose, riches a romance
Then I die a little, a little more on the inside
Pining for things that were.

Hungry nights, a hunger for glory
Hotblooded, dangerous living
Cocksure, ready to fight the world
Loved promised to many, yet each true
For there are many degrees to loving
And many ways of loving
Yet, I chose one.

So, I think of things that were
And things that might have been
Of a dozen chances not taken
And opportunities not pursued
Of a life that could have been lived
Lived another way
So I sigh, go back to bed
Else, tells the driver to pass today’s paper
Looking for things that might have been.

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