Like regrets drifting through consciousness,
They glide through the streets of our cities,
Untouchably themselves,
Silently intent on their purpose,
Counting eternities with each corner they turn.
Belonging to no time or place,
They appear in our hearts,
Offering up the flowers we never sent
And the words we never spoke,
Only to disappear once more
Into the great flow of life
And the great flow of death.
I wonder what obsequies
Are spoken over them
When they at last
Reach the end of their own road,
These discreet and faithful guardians
Of all that we have failed to be?
