Too Late for Regret
The shadows stretch across the floor, a cold and concrete cage,
The final chapter written now on life’s embittered page.
A man sits hunched in silence where the heavy silence dwells,
The king of nothing, ruling o'er a kingdom of small cells.
He counts the stones, he counts the bars, he counts the wasted years,
But all the water in the world can’t wash away his fears.
The clock upon the distant wall is ticking like a debt,
For mercy’s sun has finally set; it’s too late for regret.
It started with a simple thrill, a teenage, restless heart,
The sliding doors of grocery stores where he would play his part.
A candy bar, a pack of gum, a trinket tucked away,
The rush of blood, the secret win, the games he chose to play.
His mother saw the shifting gaze, his father felt the lie,
They begged him: "Walk the narrow path before your youth goes by."
But counsel was a heavy chain he sought to cast aside,
With arrogance for armor and a jagged sense of pride.
The stakes grew high, the pulse grew fast, the darkness took its hold,
He traded in his innocence for silver and for gold.
No longer just a shoplift thief, he walked the midnight street,
With iron tucked against his waist to make his power fleet.
He’d corner strangers in the park, beneath the moon’s cold light,
And steal the safety from their souls in the middle of the night.
The firearm was a heavy weight, a cold and lethal friend,
He never thought his chosen road would find a bitter end.
By night he’d break the padlocks off and shatter window glass,
To drain the registers of stores and let the seasons pass.
By day he sought the marble halls where heavy vaults are kept,
While honest people went to work and tired mothers slept.
He’d burst through doors with shouting breath and masks to hide his face,
A whirlwind of a violent man, a blight upon the race.
He felt like he was soaring high, a bird of prey in flight,
Ignoring every warning sign that flickered in the light.
Then came the day the sirens wailed, a high and piercing cry,
Beneath a grey and heavy shroud of a mid-December sky.
The getaway was frantic, and the tires screamed in pain,
As lead began to fly like sparks through freezing winter rain.
A red-stripe man stood in the way, a shield against the dark,
Who loved his children, loved his wife, and left a gentle mark.
A flash of fire, a muffled thud, a hero hit the ground,
While silence for a heartbeat was the only haunting sound.
The officer had hollow eyes that stared up at the blue,
A family man whose time was up, whose service now was through.
But justice has a long, cold reach, a grip that will not fail,
They hemmed the killer in at last and dragged him off to jail.
The gavel fell with thunderous weight within a crowded room,
The jury spoke the heavy words that sealed his living tomb.
"Guilty," cried the foreman, as the Reaper drew his net,
"Life without a hope of grace; it’s too late for regret."
Now no one comes to visit him, no letters hit the floor,
No footsteps bring a friendly face toward his heavy door.
He sits within the solitude, the dark and damp retreat,
And tastes the ash of every lie and every cold deceit.
He sees the face of him he killed in every shadow’s turn,
He feels the bridges he has crossed as they begin to burn.
He remembers every hand reached out, the voices soft and kind,
That tried to pull him from the rot he chose to leave behind.
"I wish I’d listened," he laments, his head within his hands,
As time like water disappears through broken hourglass sands.
The pride is gone, the anger’s spent, there’s nothing left to feel,
But the biting of the handcuffs and the coldness of the steel.
He owns the darkness of his soul, he owns the blood he spilled,
The echoing of empty space where once his life was filled.
An eternal mood of heavy black, a sun that’s forever set,
He’s drowning in the truth at last: it’s too late for regret.
