To you with both paths yet unwalked,

I write this ode, a numbered lie

Sat, alone, a glass grasped drop

Of ink, fallen, a wishful sigh,

As the old birds of sky did freely gawk.

‍

In night you reached,

In night you called,

Did anyone see?

Break down your wall?

You see no light,

Stars swallowed mud,

By the same inked spite

From your veins that floods.

‍

Before you rests

A dappled fork

That truly tests

Your resolved walk

You, paralysed,

By final choice.

I, not on, beside

Call in hoarse voice:

‍

To you, with both paths yet unwalked,

Though horrors still within our hold

Will not disperse, I ever await

Whatever’s next, refrain untold

I’ll be here, if need again to talk.