O, if not for the folly of past miss-steps
I could look forward
And take that chance that beckons.
But nay, my glass heart, fragile
And ready to crack
Keeps me wary
Holds me back.
And lost, all I can do is stare
And wish for things that are not there,
And rather than enquire and seek the truth,
I merely sit back and await the proof.
Gentle, gently, o, wicked deceitful heart
Precious, precocious, you fiend, this art
A poet winding words, an actor struck dumb
And chances like sand through open fingers pour
If but a chance I could find, some way to get inside
But I am on the wrong side of this door.