We all die, haunted
by the chances we did not take,
the alternative life, unlived.
The iron bed rusts
from the love we did not
make in it.
The summer rain pours
though we never took time
to stand in it.
The unfinished novel lies
gathering dust in the drawer
because we abandoned it.
We all die, haunted
by the chances we did not take,
by the safety we chose instead.