He didn’t know he would own only a lonely existence.
He didn’t know his resistance was wasted.
He would have faced the facts.
He would have acted accordingly, and afforded himself some lax.
He wouldn’t have tried so hard to please them.
Again, he didn’t know.
He would have passed on living fast, and would have loved to love so slow.
Instead he went to the wayside.
He’s an abandoned boat rotting on a bayside.
He’s some sort of forgotten ghost.
He’s cold water when warm wind was what he needed the most.
He is driftwood caught in the undertow.
If he only would’ve known.
He didn’t.