I can't fix it,
though I'm the one who broke it,
undeniably true ipse dixit,
and it's a fool's errand trying to cloak it,
for one too many eyes watched it,
gazing with silent disbelief
as my knavery wrecked and botched it,
visiting upon them this my grief.
I've spent their eleemosynary pity,
drained the treasuries of human understanding,
and exiled from my home and native city,
I'm sent away with shame's stigmatic branding.
Lo, I glimpse the frosted horizon just ahead,
unremembering what lay aback my uneasy shoulders,
and notice I'm on the road of the living dead,
for where the way is blocked with adamantine boulders,
the road bends to mock me cruel,
so that my days are spent in a steep and painful climb,
the path reserved for every wandering fool,
which he must trod by foot or in his mind.
Still, I sense that someone there is present,
and follow the steady tracks of a pioneer who came before,
both which make of ache and sadness moments inexplicably pleasant,
and cause me to push ahead once audacious more.
In each step I hope and wishfully wonder,
if any comprehended,
that deeply hidden under
the scandal of he whom they befriended,
was honor, truth, and charity's free sacrifice,
the action necessary for another,
the paying of a secret ransom price,
the love for a sister by her brother.
But the road does impatiently beckon,
and with unhurried haste I must heed its irresistible call,
leaving to another day to contemplate and reckon,
if the gain was worth the loss of all.
And as I press my way forward,
a familiar stranger comes astride,
and faithful remains at my wayfaring side,
as He leads me home and shoreward.
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