Too many fictions shadow facts too few.
excuses let the fisted heart hold sway,
we -- present -- only are the acts we do,
not nows are but debris to cart away.

Too much despair is shading hope too small,
regrets singe greetings for tomorrows bleak,
we -- past - are troubled could not cope at all,
those nows are but sad calls to sorrow seek.

Still unrequited love stalks innocent,
desire denied yet seethes in rattling cage,
we - future - are but dregs when win is spent,
all nows are but response to battling rage.

The thing that saves the flesh may sour the soul
and what enlivens soul on flesh take toll.