Time and the mind must have made and agreement years ago to always sneak in a dance.
Like the orange colored plastic trash bags that line the highway,
left carefully stacked by the working convicts, my bags of failures,
though not orange, stack along the highway of Life.
The orange bags will eventually be picked up later by the work force and deposited in some landfill,
while my bags of failure will be there on the highway of Life, constantly reminding me,
reminding me as my mind travels down the same direction, the pain and cost each one had brought.
To the convicts, it is a time to reflect on their wrongdoings, what brought them here, a time of reflection and correction. To me, ironically, it is also a time of reflection and correction.
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