Staring down over a grave of dreams
I observe a billion good intentions go to rut
Solitary reapers on the verge of picking the gleanings
But falling just shy of their mature expectations.
Never made it but almost
Dreams coming thro but not quite fulfilled,
Lives well lived… almost.
Destinies moderately decoded.
I wonder how many millions have trucked this way;
What each heart would pour out and lay bare
If they were offered another shot to set things straight.
Would they make akin mistakes or throw in their best?
Because in the tomb where dreams are laid to rest
Only uncorrupted half-assed undertakings
Narrate tales of aborted victories,
And paint pictures of triumph’s grave defeats.