though we stand beside the Fallen on Love’s same o’ercrowded shore.
It is Vict’ry of a diff’rent sort, over battles that we win
simply by enduring twelve more months of Pity’s din:
"Why you’ve not been snapped up yet, I can not pretend to know!”
is a word that precedes silence, awkward stares; unfunny jokes.
Perhaps it’s what you’ve wondered ‘loud, in sage-like wisdom best:
that something’s gone amiss with us, it is our fault; we failed your test.
I mean…there must be something wrong with us, or something not quite right.
Are we too opinionated? Too relaxed? Or too uptight?
Perhaps we analyze too often, or we think not near enough?
I bet we stay inside a lot, or do we brazenly show off?
I’ll leave you in your solitude once through this final note;
No flowers for your heart, and no lovers them to bring,
But you have got what’s long been sought: a life that’s worth something.
It sounds quite trite to say it (and with such a Day so near), but
I’ll say it anyway, on the off chance that you’ll hear:
The end is not the matter, nor is a golden ring;
Life is not lived the best at ends, but in its journeying.