The Beloved - Musings from Future regret

I am future
staring down the telescope lens of time.
The small lens way at the other end
pin points this moment in time, when
I could have changed,
fate could have claimed
a sweeter destiny for
  the beloved.   I try to shout
through the lens to the other side of time,
but nobody can hear me or see me
It's as if I'm not there
As though I am ethereal
a spectre.
Through the small lens of time,
a slightly greying father,
sad, uncertain;
with mere moments left to choose,
grips and holds fast
a stubborn vision of old,
believing his grip is strong enough
to elude and evade
future; he will win with his quiet authority,
ruled by respectability
and what should be.
  On my side of the long space between us,
I know
there are only a few hours, mere moments,
left to him before two points meet
in time. Where what will be
and what could be are in his hands.
  I am flailing my arms but the man,
a father, on the other end of time
can't see me. He hears nothing
but his own locked thought
  The odds are growing less with every tick,
a clock somewhere in the distance
sounds its warning,
like a train in the distance.
  The paths are getting closer,
closer, wheels rumbling,
the gap narrowing
between two points,
a cross roads where destiny
and fate wait.
  as the man chooses   I watch, regret washing over me, as
a father makes his choice.
He believes he can save his vision of me, future,
by shunting his beloved
to a side path, to deal with later.
He shoots past the moment
pin pointed, marked in the eternal
wage of war between fate and time.
He leaves beloved on a separate path
alone.
  As he chooses his and beloved's future,
the kaleidescope clockwork spins,
gears shift, cog wheels lock in place.
There, an old man
bent with time,
ponders a single moment
his choices; how he lost beloved.
  The beloved he shunted away
so long ago, to preserve
the ungraceful respectability
of a father's false dignity is
lost to him with his irreversible
choice;
denial.
  I scream as time unfolds,
I am the lone witness,
the severing of a world from a world.
I weep with inarticulate fury at my own
inability to prevent
disaster cunningly wrought
for beloved, stranded
on a side path long ago,
to be dealt with later
abandoned and alone.

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