The Road

The Road

It was a time to live,
A time to grow
Or to be pulled up
Like a weed along the road
Of life.

The one thing to be remembered
Was what was forgotten.
Cast along the wayside
With the pressed flowers
Of yesterday. . .

Waiting, watching, wanting,
For what no one knew,
Or thought they did not know.
Truth was buried under lies,
And no one looked there.

Did we learn,
Or unlearn
What we did not know then?

So many questions,
So few answers.
Life goes on.

Too late, the answers appear
In the midst of mistakes.
Ashamed, we stumble on.

Shoulds, woulds, coulds. . .
If onlys. . .Echo within us.

Only we judge ourselves
With the harshest verdicts
From the podium of our Innocence.

How can we expect ourselves to have known
What we did not.
We were there too:
Our past selves our only witness.

We have no right to stand in judgment now,
When we could not save ourselves then.

Release the prisoner, self.
The punishment is compassion.
–Fai Dawson, c.1991