A bud once born is destined to rise, Whether it wins or loses—the game of dice, Succeeds, fails, or chooses—it comes but once, not thrice. A younger me once faced a chilled old door, Heard voices of the past and future pour, Asking me to unfasten the lock it wore. I stood there still, like one already dead, Consumed by fear that circled through my head, Asking myself, “Is it green—or painted red?” The door gazed back—“Do I owe you something?” Never had I dreamt my fears would cling, I ran back to him—and found him still standing. My soul burst out—a chill ran through my spine, The door was gone, just emptiness to twine, Some days are better left behind—for mercy is fine.