Missed Fortune

The nobility of the ruined heart,
Suffered though it may be by shame's guile
And bound to the legacies of lovers,
Stands not first among the ranks of great lords.
Neither do the oceans fill up with tears
For love of any man or league thereof,
Adorned either with jewels or scarab-crests
Or steeped in the scars of such battered souls.
The sun, when in the midday may grace him,
Does not know him to be of great wonder,
Though tall among men he stands as their king;
The scepter betrays the hand that holds it,
Neither going to nor coming from God,
But instead belying the average fate
Of the average man on the average day.
And yet, such pity torn from minds of men
May be when a sole tear wells in the eye,
When shame refuses every party come
And but one gem decks a battered dress robe;
He is now a man but by guise alone,
And so shall now know the ruin of men.