A moment that turns 

Into a turning-point, 

Or point-of-no-return,

A Rubicon-crossing

That bears no stamp

Of approval, merely

A refusal to see

Choice as boon,

Instead of bane,

As you embrace

The bruise bestowed

By Fate, in all its 

Uninterrupted glory, 

Handing it the reins

Of the story, so 

That to its decree

You acquiesce; but

Then again, you

Always did wear the

Diadem of dejection

Oh so well...