Two tales within the woods are told
Two paths, inside of a wood emerging
My soul was bought, pilfered, and sold
From a tale, whose sorry moral often is told
Of two paths inside of a wood diverging
The one, we say, was well traveled
The other, in equal measure, was the same
The sights, the scents, the people babbled
Their chattering untruths unraveled
Until bitterly I turned away ashamed.
No difference in the paths there were
No change, no sign, no, none at all
No sight for sore eyes, no rememberer
New eyes, still blind, unfocused were
While I, the third path, fled from them all.