More Self Pity

There is a moment
I am happy.
Then I look,
Then I see,
This is not where I want to be.

Old eyes, tired hands, faded smile:
Petals on the rose, long since dried,
Falling each time it is shaken,
Falling each time it is knocked.
Dead rose petals clog the sink;
I need to feel; I need to think.

Life slips away from me.
I have let go of everything I wanted to be.
The journey is all that is left,
But I am tired and need to rest.

Dreams haunt me like ghosts.
They are with me late at night.
“It is not too late,” they whisper,
And the promise of happiness clanks in their chains.

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