The last page was the halfway point
And now, apart from that last short ditty
We could almost say it is a new beginning
And how many more times have I begun again
How well the strain of originality is kept at bay, both
Along the illuminated way, and within the sunken shadows
The madness isn't though now present quite so often
Time, that great healer, softened many of the blows
Although, will it ever truly be over, will I ever know
If it is that the fields and the trees
In the morning frost are feeling the chill
The sky and the breeze thus redeeming me still
The thrill of the chase
And the basket case I became
No blame, no reframe, no endless shame
Always the same or all ways to change
Simply to write; sit with words to rearrange
Place this before that, in love's lost exchange
