By James R Cain

Each day a stagnant death.
I sit and gaze unseeing,
ponder paths not taken,
roads misty in regret.
If I could but start again,
I say,
things might have been different. . . .

The past.
those fossilized footsteps.
How long till the darkness comes?
Till worms make me their home?
I am a tree, reaching forever for the sun;
craving light
I can not touch nor grasp.
My roots are trapped in stone.
Even my skin resembles bark.
I can but wait,
suspended in this intolerable silence
and dream of that summer rain.