Things that nag at us, gnawing at our insides,

Dogs on bone, caterpillars on leaves,

That which we know we should do. 

We let them slide, though they eat holes in our souls, 

And then, one day, there is no more time. 

What we know we should have done, 

Kept from it by doubt and guilt, from ego and fear, 

Has passed us by—

We stand scared instead of healed,

Broken bones, shredded leaves, 

The chance squandered for meaningless considerations, 

And we are left a husk, 

A brittle shell of powder, prone to blow away, 

A faithless, empty bag that followed someone else’s path, 

Scavenged by predators.