Some men grow old doing good
Some age as well dealing mean
Some live long enough for both
And every choice in-between.
A few come to repent of their evil
But most learn to take pride in their wrong
Some find grace sufficient, but more
Know fate – like pride – is strong.
Are there evils too deep for redemption?
Is hope the way good is seduced?
Repentance cannot replace justice
Evil’s erased, not reduced.
So what of this man, once wicked
In whom goodness, at some point, took root
And flowered and grew, ‘til the evil he knew
Was rendered moribund, moot?
His end belies his beginnings
But Memory’s cruel, and selects
The moments a man is defined by
The point at which fate intersects.
The noon of truth illumines – and blinds
The night overtakes the slow dawn
They can’t let the beginning end now
His good dies, his evil lives on.
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