Through the thick mist,
I look down upon the grassy lands,
It is remorseful when I see-
the broken silver needle, on the stone slab.
Who left it behind, or did someone present it?
was it a gift or a memoir for the soul around it?
But maybe it was neither,
maybe- it was the stone that crafted it,
as a closer look sights me the rough cuts,
the many failed thin rods, stacked to the side.
But why bother after all the lost time,
why bother when your are helpless and undefined,
the chances to rewrite and redo have gone,
today carries the truth of now.
Yesterday was painful, regretful and deceitful,
yet none grants you the chance,
to stitch up the broken and tore.
With the soul escaping the confines of mortality,
the body succumbing to the soil,
tethering up the doings with threads,
would only grant a momentary peace,
before you say the final goodbye.