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Poem

Amid taxing toils and ever ebbing throes, 
We totter toward the end that must come; 
Yielding all stale themes of yester-breath, 
Our face as meek as that of a dying lamb. 

Such ill-fated Odyssey kicks off with a cry
Of baffled aspects between fright and joy, 
And thus unfurls green every puerile soul, 
Mocking suns that idly as fierce wasps fly. 

In clueless middle of life's vanishing rise, 
Beauty's Foe hatches his secret disguise
That steals unseen health's naive gleams, 
And in bits confounds her soaring dreams. 

At last are her tics shut piece after piece
By plotting Hour who fairer lucks thieves; 
And blends of sad sighs and deft disease
Slay any fags of throb swift sunset leaves.

Not so fickle this trembling hand's doleful ink: 
It'll kick and roam past Time's snobbish brink!

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