In a contemporary city where golden books lay ahead,

Glory is the path of a cliche childhood,

In the realistic world of Surreal fantasies,

Its patterns of stars and black holes that make one's dreams.

The book of life is sometimes negative,

but the gates of trust lay ahead,

Behold the silver links and unpredictable bundles of joy,

Sometimes choices are the only fortune tellers.



So there were the ones with the pink signs all over,

then the ones with the block glasses and all big sweaters,

I choose the one with the outside criteria,

Not the outsider, nor the insider,

Not the one with the smiles bright and echos crying,

Nor the black widowed ropes of unfaithful looks.

I choose the one with my heart's path,

I choose the one with a mixture of both.



Was my choice wrong, I think not.

Yet as difficult it is to accept the truth,

Regret is an afterword of holly sorrow that burdened me.

Its black pitched caves are the house to burglars.

The pro of mistakes are the lessons taught.

So there was a magic word of if, if not what happened. Happened.

Then, what would, would have happened.



Sometimes in life, there are regrets,

I regret things that I choose but I look back at these paths.

These paths I take are drawing of the future.

However, realization with brief breath of silence,

The topic of "redo" is a fairytale ending,



Life is full of aspects, and choices are made accordingly.

The remix of topics are falsely accurate,

The purpose of thinking back would be to remind the moral.

If I had gone back to choose a path, the path would be facsimile.

For if it were any different, there would be no lesson taught.