Never have I bent to be content with soaked-bone pliancy.
Draining from my heart, resolve is fleeing off to cyan sea.
Blood and air and iron flowing deepen passion's vacancy.
Every cell colludes to push a movement toward complacency.
Open like a beggar's hand, my spirit always catches
Pelting from an oily scalp rained down when some god scratches.
Promise of a better time appears in thinning batches,
Sanctuary cover cannot guard its vital thatches.
Lissome frame of ardor now is sagging, filled with muck.
Present frowns with curve of force that will not swerve my luck.
Duty and defiance are bereft of fervent buck.
Quitting might take effort, and, if so--then fuck--I'm stuck.