I'm So Sorry
I drove the sedan in silence, my thoughts sombre, fretful and deep,
My hands tightly on the steering wheel, eyes fixed, glazed — in need of sleep.
In fact, we both were silent, and hurting very deeply inside,
But even more so, my darling wife, whose distress was justified.
Yes, we can suffer nasty blows in this world that is full of pain,
That both physically and emotionally heavily drain.
And amidst those hard knock-down punches, and our struggle to arise,
Our feelings for fellow sufferers we sometimes anaesthetize.
“Would you like an ice-cream?” she asked me, meaning that she desired one,
“No,” I replied, so absorbed in self, blind to what I had just done.
Continuing to drive, I glanced at my wife — she silent once more,
And the tear that I noticed trickle, broke my heart, and at it tore.
Such I have never forgotten — yes, it still haunts me to this day,
To think that I had acted in such a callous, unfeeling way.
It had seemed such a little thing, but to her it had meant so much,
For I had just denied her what she'd needed — yes, a tender touch.
I was hurting and distraught, locked in grief that had me paralyzed,
Therefore, just how thoughtless I had been, I only later realized,
For I'd cruelly added to her pain, and hence that solitary tear,
That had slowly trickled and fallen, yet shouted, “Oh, callous ear!”
You see, no ice-cream was bought that day, for I'd just continued on,
Thus, that opportunity that I'd had to cheer her was soon gone.
Yes, a fleeting moment when love required that there and then I act,
And oh, how deeply I wish now, that my “No” I could somehow retract.
It wasn’t just an ice-cream — oh no — it was so much more than that,
It was something that she'd needed at that moment where she was at.
Thus, I had hurt the one I loved, as my own pain, had made me blind;
Oh, selfish heart, how I curse thee, for you’re the blight of humankind.
By Lance Landall
The Last Thing On Love's Mind
There’s no joy in wrong, for out of wrong springs more, and wrong is never to our benefit, nor ever worthy,
And thus those who willingly succumb to such, mere slaves of its ill, which they oft inflict on others, sadly.
They both being many, and wrong always being wrong, regardless of any excuses given in its defence,
For wrong is the practice of fools, puppets and perpetrators, something that never comes from wisdom or sense.
Yes, anywhere but from wisdom or sense, and never from love, for injury is the last thing on love’s mind,
And why those who willingly indulge in injury aren’t on love’s side, but more enemies of humankind.
And hence why we’re all the worse for such, for it acts like a cancer within us, and within society,
Which is why we shouldn’t succumb to its beckoning, our hearts and minds free of blame, we acting correctly.
Yes, no matter how much we defend or titillate wrong, it’s still wrong — so too that “End justifies the means,”
For it attempts to bridge the gap between what's right and wrong, effectively — which right doing, it still contravenes.
Such reminds me of those so-called little white lies, for how can any lie be white, somehow acceptable?
Other than if we paint it so, and painted it is, a wrong that we’ve disguised in order to something sell.
No, there’s no joy in wrong, though there may well appear to be, but only if we’re looking through distorted lens,
Which conveniently, but still deludedly — and perilously, I might add — something or other bends.
And yes, we might get away with it, but what does such say of us, having settled for less integrity,
We joining the list of willingly offenders, and thereby, adding to the lot and loss of humanity.
By Lance Landall
