Another Fine Mess

Oh, if we could only go back in time, 
A day, a week or even a year,
Know all the pitfalls,
               The potholes, 
               The pratfalls, 
See all the bumps in the road up ahead. 
But vision is weak, impaired if not blinded by
Heart-felt passion’s irrational rush, 
And we keep making the same mistakes 
That leave us to sleep in an empty bed.

Wellsprings of happiness don’t merely happen. 
They must be constructed of labor and love. 
Truth is the shovel, compassion the pick so that 
When mistakes happen there’s room to confess.

You could have…
I could have… 
We could have been more 
               Deductive,
               Seductive, 
               Productive at best
In our effortless efforts to find resolution. 
Instead we are left with another fine mess.

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