Jonathan ROBIN (22 September / London)
Trip's rune tune drips, pain grips gain's grain, sands slip
indifferent to applause or tribulation:
as centuries dissolve, full meaning's chime
to tocsin turns from tintinnabulation.
Dissatisfaction earns itself worm urn,
untasted yolk yoke soon evaporates,
missed chances opportunities may earn
for good or ill, for boon, shame blamed on Fates.
Concern for failure ends in cul-de-sac,
might-have-been wishful-thinking self-destroying,
faith, headless hanger for skeletal sack,
bloom's blossom's blown from fantasy employing
defenses that to pseudo judgements fall.
Time's jury haggles over verdict's call.
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