Punctured Life
Dangling in the dungeon,
Rigid as a rod;
Hovering above are pigeons,
To feast before I rot.
A wail rises from the dead —
Yet from the dead, I wake,
To walk once more among the living,
And ponder what the graves forsake.
The controversy is ended,
The chase for praise is done;
For excellence, though defended,
Is but a shadow of the sun.
Oh, a punctured life —
Drained of all its light,
Defeated in the fight,
Swinging between day and night.
What vanity is this —
To perish in proud deceit?
For excellence is vanity,
And dust shall be my seat.
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