20190227.0430

I strive to be no centerpiece,
Made decoration for a feast
Or of that feast made the entree,
As too often is the way
That matters go, but I confess
That I do not strive as is best,
As is made clear from what is done.
I labor much, but just begun
The labor is that I must do;
I doubt that I can carry through
Those tasks that to me tend to fall.
With one I struggle, and so with all
I must fare worse, or so I fear.
I know the Stupid God draws near,
The frightened smell catching its nose
As its stultification grows.
It draws on as I run away;
My coward self avoids the fray
In which I should be full enmeshed.