The Unclaimed Martyrdom

I used to walk where I had walked before,
The unclaimed martyrdom still in my sights,
But after one or two too many nights
I found myself patrolling the lakeshore
And running. My ambition earned me more
Disparagement than praise. Turn off the lights,
Relax, and laugh. You've got me dead to rights:
I'm still alive, not martyred. Are you sore?

Past perfect simple? Past imperfect? Time
Is only what we hope for: cool, discerning,
The subject of impure and graceful yearning.
This sort of mild complaint, in perfect rhyme,
Is what you choose to call a mortal crime,
But who's dead here? Not me. I'm still here, burning.