There was a time I wanted to revisit
every imperfectly done action
without which my life would not have moved.
But I have discovered the attempts are frustrating.
The imperfect relics are in worse shapes.
They no longer want my touch, my caress.
Bygone is bygone.
Even the ladyloves are left in their myriad pathways
that can never be retraced.
March of time is ruthless.
It does not wait for sentiments,
niceties, even proprieties.
Even brutalities have to be accepted,
saluting the Lord,
and just mumbling,
"It is your wish,
I am too small to understand
Thy hand, the great anarch"!
