The person I choose not to be; dies.
Every moment as the sceptre of choice brings to life a new me
The person I could have been is already in her grave
Among those dead, are there those that I might admire, envy, disdain or resent…?
In every case they are dead and I am not.
Would they have been a finer me, I wonder
Did they have a better right to life?
Perhaps, but I am glad the choice was not mine
And now I will go through the motions of my script
With the best will I can muster and as much heart as I can spare
And when that moment of choice arrives I will be strong and secure
In the knowledge that however I choose, I will not live to regret.