Once again, a fool – or, perhaps, some broken
whatever-you-are, poor, confused soul,
blanketed in self-pity and ignited in comparison:
I must needs relinquish a death-grip on a hope that is not mine to grasp,
for a far better one bids my steps follow it.
I had chosen one and now
I find there is a better way, but I must lessen and Another increase.
I find, then, that I lack love.
The deeds of others exceed your paltry attempts at reality – should you stand
the breath of a chance,
your honour would be small, you torn phantom of meaning –
fain would you give it away and loth you would be
to part from it.
As it is you are gasping,
and you have only mounted the first rung –
the rest stretch upward, and you
are at the bottom –
Lies, enemy, lies.
Yet oft I lower my shield
and welcome your arrows.
I wish to raise it up – again –
and stand upon the shoulders of Another.
Should my shield be shattered, then I wish it done in the fight.
If nothing grips my name, and if so must be the end, then, let it be –
nothing will stand.