Wednesday, September 19, 2018

20180919.0430

Too like the one-eyed one in his last days,
When ‘gainst the serpent he himself arrays
And charges forth, ‘mong somber-most displays,
I toil on to fight the Stupid God.
I strike against it with too small a rod
To injure it--or even it to prod--
And feel its mass reach out, encircle me,
And no way out remains through which to flee.
I know not what results thereof will be,
But I have my suspicions; none are good,
And I have not the thought they ever would
Be so, nor expectation that they could.
If spear that fails not fails in such a fight,
How much more failure when I lack such might?

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