O, if not for the folly of past miss-steps
I could look forward
Without regret
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.
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