Oh, it's the might have beens that get you
when you're old,
when the weeks fly by so fast
and the story's mostly told.
On a good day? the sun shines
and the grey clouds roll away,
the words flow line by line,
and there's purpose in the day.
On a bad day, the memories roll past,
the remembering of all that didn't last.
And you wish you could go back, re-live it all,
roll out all the pretty dreams,
and watch them fall.
And it might remotely fit for Karin's prompt at Real Toads: Remains. The remains of a life?