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Regret We have no stream in saying Sorry, no fishing, certainly, To see things, no place I've Never been no hunting left; no lost in the woods, no first time, a loss of stories No street fights, no bugle on the born, no cross step, the dance is done our giving away are our loves to leave, gone as a the shaman we knew, away like that shank in a & fight, it has left forscore, down as if not a shoulder knows a drum; this fire has no form, as if it were all by yourself you ever thought, when better is with eyes still encountered known, for just about all of us read the masters either before or during our marches and wandering; while this killing time has throh us as a cast, tell alied and romanticized as lost, Not so kindly and further than any memory still alive has traveled; this counting of thy blessings, this wondering why our minds should stays our graveyards and poetiv to the stone, that we know the difference/ between the cross and christ and love the choice; scattered as sand is one and as pitched as power, we of the hell on Earth don't leave alone the wind or its flower, and most of us are children left to grow alone, alone like our mothers and fathers too, who take this task, and fight listening to the dreamers we are, not become, given, a birth...