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?