With every round I fresh discover
The worldly wealth a path can cover,
The twisting turns that make a life,
Uncertain roads where change is rife,
And every turn brings altered trail;
But now that I am old and frail
I cannot help but idly ponder;
What of the many paths I squander?
With every turn I gladly make,
There remains a path I did not take,
Who knows what tales my mind would own,
Had I but tread those paths unknown;
Perhaps my friends would number higher,
Perhaps more coins I would acquire.
Perhaps some fiend would spell my end
Of such things none can quite portend
For not all paths are quite the same,
Though some bring fortune and some bring fame,
Others lead through swamps and muck,
Where dreams will fester and hopes lay stuck,
As still as sails on stagnant day,
So leads some well-trod, vibrant way.
Looking back throughout my years,
I’ve fought my ghosts and faced my fears,
I’ve made my turns both wrong and right,
In inky dark and blinding light,
And should my tale by freshly writ,
What would I change?
Not a bit