Desperate Hope

Is it owing to my age? Or power and position? Am I, in my furnace of self-forsakenness, burning? Have others abandoned me? Why's there no recognition? In isolation, as flesh in a frying pan, I'm churning Where is my imagination now, as a poet, gone? Why are these thoughts on the absurdity of existence? Why for the spilt milk of powerlessness praxen I mourn? Why should weaknesses over my firmness have persistence? Like a caterpillar pupating for its survival, Or a person in a river swimming against the whirl Each element around me seems to have turned my rival Out of my fond Pandora Box, every evil unfurl I know I am in between the devil and the deep sea Honey dripping from far, yet, has become precious to me.