If horses could fly

In the midst of impeded thoughts
and numbed by the numbered days
Left to fend for their keep
And weighed by frosty tidings
Reflection is a luxury not afforded to me.

The nightmare years have gone by
leaving a weak trail of moss.
The possibility of dream
is hidden in the labyrinth of lost insecurity.
How I long for those times
when everything was a window
to infinite rhymes.

Fearful of the day of reckoning,
I trudge on with wavering resolve.
But in the wake of my nauseous desire
I leave a rotten path.
The following rarely stand,
and those who do, barely survive.

Ask not whether it's by choice,
for choice is a cruel joke.
And the guilt of inaction,
is a pain long forgotten.