Standing in the ashes of my sorry I dream of what could have been.
Looking at the grey and black I wonder about what came first and last.
How it would have been if I spoke or remained silent a little longer.
What this moment might have looked like if I did more or didn’t do.
In this now exist only the scarred and broken remains of what if?
Touching the torched wood of our togetherness, it crumbles to nothing.
Dusty maps in my hands of roads traveled brings no peace, they end here.
Then I cry at the joke of it all, the tortured reality of the path of destiny.
I use the fragments of what should have been to clear a new path.
Then I summon myself to this home of catastrophic annihilation.
I scoop up the remnants of us from the debris with my hands.
I bow my head and with my tears water the green seedling of our new creation.