Promise made yesterday, unkempt this day
haunts me now as i write, as i sit, do
what so helplessly must be done today,
i wonder at powers of each excuse
which can desecrate a sacred oath.
What does intent have to do with that vow
before fate wields desultory hand and
vaguely forbids the keeping of this bond?
So well meaning, honest and wise-seeming
now a gritty guilt, for failure and fate
often create impassable moments,
such as these small miseries; dishonoured,
Honour does all but die, ineptitude,
ignoble death: desecrated word!
Were all the promises ever made found -
those that had fallen to unheeded grounds,
placed and ever shored, in some great way swept
together, gathered in a wondrous mound
i would in some future omnipotence,
restore their life, resolved, resilient
to give them Time so that they could be kept
So that forevers are reserved for such:
the making, the keeping of oath and vow.
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