My Bag of Regret
He sat on a bench in the park that day
I couldn't help notice, as I passed his way.
Sitting and staring down at his shoes
mumbling the words "I am you".
A tattered bag he held by his side
his clothes all worn, his shoes untied.
His hat couldn't cover, all of his hair
he looked quite the bum just sitting there.
He beckoned me over to look in his eyes
the soul of this man I might recognize.
He carried the burden of his willful life
his sorrow besieged me in all of it's strife.
I softly asked him "What can I do?"
He said "Nothing Friend, I am you."
He opened his bag and showed me so dear
the things that burdened his life with a tear.
In his bag, broken promises, too many to count
and lies to loved ones, an endless amount.
Greed and selfishness were also hid there
infidelity cluttered his bag of despair.
Bigotry and hate were skewed in the swag
I saw my transgressions there in that bag.
Seeing the lot made my worthlessness known
and there I was, on the bench all alone.
The old man was gone, the bag was all mine
and all those sins were by my own design.
My day of redemption, I'll never forget
cause I carry the burden. . . my bag of regret.