Alone in the House of Regret

The aging man sits alone in the House of Regret,

wishing he could retrieve what long ago slipped through his fingers.

No, that's not entirely accurate.

It was a conscious effort to discard something of value.

I can hear his sighs and words of sorrow chasing each other through the open, curtained window.

What could have been will never be.

Happiness now eludes him like a dog-race mechanical rabbit.

Never to be caught.

At least that's how it seems to the sad-faced man.

Everyone has gone; there's no one left with shoulders wide enough

or a heart caring enough to help carry the weight of the

soul-crippling anguish that is his to bear.

He pleads for another chance.

Just one.

But he can't find - or doesn't know - the right words.

What comes out of his mouth is a futile plea.

The chance to atone for youthful ignorance.

Just one more chance.

But there are no more chances.

So, the sad-faced man continues to weep 

alone in the House of Regret.