dozen different lifetimes

He hangs his head
and he says
"This isn't what I intended.
I never meant for this."
All he can think of
is a dozen lifetimes of
regret, disappointment, disgrace
and he wishes that there was
a simple end to everything.
But there never is.
And all he can do is
offer half-hearted sorries,
repeated statements that
define his very being.
"Intent has nothing to do with it,"
says the more
darker part of his consciousness.
"How many times must you play
this out
before you realise all the things
you choose to do or not do
mean absolutely nothing.
Intend good, intend bad,
the result is always
the same."
He slumps his shoulders.
These things are true,
he thinks,
but what good is there in acknowledging?
He cannot take it back,
he cannot undo everything he has
done in every life of his.
Can he not take
some consolation
in that he attempted to do the right thing?
"Of course not!
There's no consolation for you!
Why do you dream of such
silly and fanciful things?
Admit it!
You are doomed and by
some extension
you doom others."
His thoughts, for one moment
turn to fate.
"Don't,"
says that darker voice.
"You've thought of it
before
and you'll think of it again
and oh do I so hate
telling you about destiny."
He remembers.
He remembers a half dozen vague
confusing conversations
within his mind over such things.
And he resigns himself.
He cannot find some argument to
excuse all the things he has done
or to explain away his choices.
He simply hangs his head
and against the smug,
chiding voice in his head, he says
"This isn't what I intended.
I never meant for this."
And all he can think of
is a dozen different lifetimes
he may or may not have lived.