the-other1

You will have been dead fifteen years tomorrow, and yet not once have I visited your grave. I was always busy; there was always time to see you, to make amends. And yet, I feel it's all a sham. I could make time, but I fear the truth. It's easier to believe my lies. If I went, I'd see your plot, see how you lie untroubled, beneath the soil. Your tomorrows ended many yesterdays ago. No fears to face, no debts to pay. No decisions grave to weigh your brow.  Not like your son.  How I feel the heaviness of this life. There's too much time and not enough. Lives end every day. It's time to stop hiding from the pain. My future lies