Stillborn

Perhaps our sorrow comes from things That died, as we our choices made; A ghost of something never born, A story stopped from existing. A breath of something never seen, That slips close by, unnoticed; And shadows moving, in our dreams That keep with us no closeness. Dead children there, that never breathed, Nor wore the flesh, as we do- Ideas stillborn, like their lives; Unformed and mute- no freshness. For we can only go one way, While others stay untested- And seldom change step, where our feet Must walk now- unless wrested.