I greet the daily obstacles
As so much muck for me to clean,
Sparse the interstices between
When I have time to check my pulse.
Still yet I breathe. The sense so dulls
It cannot tell, behind the sheen
If life or death pervades the scene,
So much of torment without lulls.
So life becomes a splintered chore,
Sans meaning, pleasure, joy whereby
Comes lightness so the spirit fly
In spite of adverse chances; or
As I remain the mortgagor
Heaven were mine the day I die
Save I default security,
Soul which is God’s, or thing foreswore.