There is, in our bleakest hour of despair
A singular feeling of wild ecstasy,
An unexpected joy that clears the air
To which the pained sinews can but agree.

There is, in our most joyous moments
This terrible doubt of the spotless mind
That nurtures the fear of future torments
And mocks mirth as being naive and blind.

There is, in our greatest acts of passion
The lingering ghosts of expectations
Who haunt us with the shadows of reason
And shackles our ankles with patience.