I have come to life’s dry point
where limbs grow dim
to suppleness and strength,
where ecstasy is something now
incapable of being known
or rising once again in me
and kindling grace received is nothing but a memory,
when all the promised uses of the world
have grown to be
inconstant things, flat and stale and prospectless.
What cause is there for seeking joy
or clemency? They are beyond my reach.
In truth I cannot help but see
my fate’s decree is this:
that all there is forever more to come
are hollow days that wend along
unchanging, dull, and dusty paths
until I am by life undone.