There’s a downside to being
the sharpest crayon in the box,
beyond the lack of recognition,
invisibility between moody blues
and purple prose, reduction
to a mere initial in the rainbow,
a bunting confused with a bluebird.
While my companions deplete,
blunted by gnawing remorse, I
regret the unwritten words,
the uncrossed lines, the road
not taken, and that
makes all the difference.

I could write volumes about remorse and regret, cite dozens of blues songs based on one or the other, and the poems, famous or unknown. But I won’t. I may regret it later.

Inspired by prompts from godoggocafe and dverse.


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