poetry

regretless

But I've become a worn welcome to chance, having dreamt near all I've done.

Though weary, I still hold my hope,
    As I’ve learned in life the ways
To scratch my stairs into the sheerest slope,
To twine of every breath a kernmantle rope,
    And count tomorrow among my days.

But I’ve become a worn welcome to chance,
    Having dreamt near all I’ve done;
Now on thinning cans in heavy-soled can’ts,
I’ve left the whole of me in every better dance
    And owe more heart to no one.


 

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