Sometimes my mind runs to the quiet room.
A sullen, lightless, angry room,
where by the walls,
in cases formed of ice and coldest steel,
regrets are saved, displayed and viewed,
on drunken nights and empty days
of painful solitude.

Sometimes the door behind me locks
and I am trapped,
forgotten in this lonely cell,
whose only light;
The shining guilt each specimen exudes.
Forcing attention while denying redemption,
staring me square in the face
while daring me to blink.

There are strangers and familiar faces,
should-have-beens in distant places.
There are jungles green in my regrets,
and rivers stagnant with decay.
There is sorrow from my silence there
of things not said that I should say.
There are actions that I should have done,
battles un-avoided by the anger of an only son.
Dreams betrayed and paths denied,
blocked off as always by my pride.

The room where guilt lives scars me,
cleansing with its fury,
burning out in pieces
every torment from my brain.
Until one day,
the room in dust will stand concealed,
the ice then cracked and steel corroded,
as one by one each case will burst
and with them my regrets shall flee
and then my ghosts and I shall dance
to songs of love and failed romance
beneath the newly minted sky,
my ghosts,
regrets,
my guilt, and I.