Poem, Revised Draft

I had to write this poem again.
I left the first draft on the train
and now it doesn’t look the same.

The original was a paean to Love,
to Truth and Beauty; it soared above
the everyday and all that stuff.

It would have healed estranged lovers’ rifts,
stilled the sands on which time shifts
and stopped the world before it drifts

further into quagmired crisis.
It was an open heart. It wore disguises.
It employed ingenious literary devices.

I have tried my hardest to recall
its words and rhythms, the rise and fall
of those lines upon their cadenced crawl

through the English language.
But it has only caused me pain and anguish
for there was little I could salvage.

It certainly didn’t end with a line like this.