The Life Unlived

When I've no more left to live,
I pine for the life unlived.

She stirs upstairs,
shelling crawfish,
dropped tails fall in the crawlspace.

In this segment of my timeline,
I am doing mighty fine,
yet there's more I want for mien.

Trapped where I usually sleep,
my past: something I don't want to keep.

He's hardly real years afterwards,
his absence the silence between words,
giving sounds substance.

Sans silence there's white noise,
a drone unadorned is ignored,
pitches unchanging hardly heard.

Invisible in a herd of people,
even we don't want to learn ourselves.

They're worse than us,
which makes us better,
superior versus mediocre.

Y'all hunt for fun,
find regrets,
ah gather we're slaves and pets.

Stuck with me,
the life unlived seems...