On the Nature of Regret

We spy with leering eyes, as the poor on the rich,
On our invisible selves, who, strolling at our sides
With self-pleased grins, never missed a turn or wrongly
Chose the prong of life's many forks.  Strange paradox
Of fate: perceiving the unseen, and what is not,
We, with at times violent force, lust to kill the unborn and take
It's place, in that world where they walk always in success's light;
They, meanwhile, oblivious of our blatant, failed states:
States colored by the shades that make us real;
Which makes us the-more jealous of their lives: Lives seen,
Indeed, conveyed and encircling, in foreign frames;
To make us wonder if those ghosts do enter into them
To make us double-doubt the chosen course.
Thus self-loathing lives at the core of covetousness,
And completes the wheel.  Ah, the wheel: engine of dis-ease,
For by countless revolutions of mind or matter does a thing,
Loop-locked, spin out of control, and, without brakes,
Break the bridge of progress, and bring a soul to a boring,
Bitter end.  Sick repetitions!  Sick circles! Inward facing,
We glare longingly at the untouchable center, and,
Reaching, our arms fling back,
Bound by nature's gravity to imperfect life.