Is a regret I harbor in my heart to this day;
‘Tis hard to think we did not see another way.
Our white hot anger against one another congealed
When a lurking enmity broke from the tomb long sealed.
‘Twas some triviality… a stolen knife, bauble? Who can say?
It matters not in the end. All I attest to is the fey
Humor that infected my soul which solely his blood could heal.
Or, so I thought at the time. Irony is rank in life;
Those trinkets we hold so dear and treasure above all
Do nothing to give us joy. Verily, they bring naught but strife.
Yet we feel compelled to go out like lobsters to bash and fall
Whilst we rob those we count as friends for petty wrongs rife
With our own jaded views. Oh, the wonder and agony of it all.