Now, here, I see the error of my ways;
For long I’ve contemplated–laying blame
On all events long past–my fear, my shame.
And still, mine own inaction now betrays
This dagger of deceit on which I gaze.
Though masking cowardice with pride, I came
To this unseemly state–my heart aflame
With thee–replete with thine own sickly praise.
But how was I to know: no fate was worse
Than live a tragic life bereft of thee?
How could there more malevolent a curse
Than rob us of our only destiny?
Did we do right by running then, or did
We simply kill the dream for which we hid?