To whomsoever that it may concern:

I write this as a spirit looking back,

Back, back, to you, and hope that you may learn

The things I couldn’t.

Your ghostly guide, I drift along your course

And stop, and glance at you, your head still down.

“You know, there’s no point still having remorse

For things I couldn’t.”

I saw, I heard, your plaintive, begging cry

For help, for none, for anything at all

Remain unanswered- breathed your sorrowed sigh

For things I couldn’t.

This was your greatest fear, I know; you sink

To nightmared knees and mourn this second chance.

You weren’t- I was supposed to stop, not think

Of things I couldn’t.

Your eyes- they snap awake- was it a dream,

A fantasy, your darkest thoughts to delve?

Or- darker yet- a vision did it seem:

A Letter to Myself.