Ok

1849 Steps...

Of Regret-Yes 1849, I counted.
Steps up? Down? Where?
Away, steps away.

In a fleeting instance, a choice made,
like kids choosing soda, or a lemonade.
But far graver the consequence, that day,
that day I chose, to walk away.

First step taken, I could not turn back,
oh that bitter, bitter regret.
Every step a burdened gained,
forward to backwards,
walking in vain.

1849 later, wrenched myself around,
scurrying, stumbling all
the way back.

And then just empty benches, a fat lady whistling
and 1849 steps back.

I'm writing a bunch of poetry, hoping it will boost my lit grades. This one's about walking and stuff.