The wisest run is the way of error.
For with the pale view of the waning moon,
My tidy path through time is quenched too soon.
Passing clouds bid no study of my fear.
Wishing so hard to find a second peer,
I occupy a place of confusion.
This maze, but a stage to an empty room
Where I, the veiled actor, stifles a tear.
Take me home now, having traveled the night.
From unknown lands where unknown ways hold fast,
I sail this treacherous crossing with calm.
Faith, my tiller, gains hold of reason’s sight.
Chance tenders to season the life’s compass;
And fate, the vivid artwork, is my balm.
