Some experiences, like needles, twist
Through and thread our innermost gist,
Stringing together on life’s thin tether
Both beads of brilliance and bands of blether.
And we shall awaken in moments low
With a half-lashed glance of our fleeting foe,
Time, as we numbly bear upon the breast
Our chaplet of choices and chains confessed.
Fate will fit us with all our finery
And shall prepare our grave, if in irony;
But I have need to strip Her torc of tears,
To be nakedly unreined of my nether years.
A wiser man, yet a fool to forgive,
With no charter nor chance to the past relive,
I am nothing less than I am right now
And seek no crown for the crest of my brow.