Trifled

I've made my own peace-
With status quo. And yet-
There's a tinge, of hurt
Every now and then, lingering,
The half-forgotten regret
Of what should not have been,
What might be, except that fools
Are blind. But who is the fool-
I do not, and dare not know.
It is now cast in cold hard stone,
Which makes the warmth-
More than comfortable. But
Still, sometimes, the warm glow
Can be so painfully glaring.