I bear a pain that's all your own,
Perhaps we switched, unknowing,
For if you've this, and I have both,
Then where is Justice going?
Perhaps you'll say, you know it's true
That there is no such honour,
And, every day, the less we'll rue,
Move onward, and why bother?
A painful stride of mine this is
To carry both our crosses -
The irony, the state, is this:
I cut, and hold, our losses.

But in a prayer, I should find light,
And with more prayers, you'll find yours,
My pride knows nothing but the fight,
Is known to beat on blind doors;
I was a fool, and this I know,
To kiss, or write, or wander,
But human nature errs, and so
There's now, there's then, and yonder.

Scant verse I offer now to you
With little wisdom to it:
A broken record with no view
Of how I'd be a poet:
Thinking that artists paint all things,
And words are nothing sacred,
No sorries are there, and no strings,
No reparations make it.

Why I should bow out in disgrace,
Why I should worsen suffering,
Endart mine eye in yours, and face:
I said much, and said nothing.