To Cease Upon The Midnight Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

What plot encompasses our story's scope?
Ret-urning tears well, eloquently dumb,
where shadows numberless leave yearning numb,
and where the headstone's granite shoulders slope
squat down upon grave tomb's departed hope.
Chips cover churning worms which gorge plum, plumb
fame's name, life's game, both spurning: zero sum.
Why worry whether minister or pope
on empty blessing strings pain sermon's rope,
vain hope remains in echo's braggart drums!
The petty pomp which time spent pawning crumbs
is thrust by Time, nonplussed, from g[r]asp and grope.
A sandy trickle ends, calls each to task,
the handy sickle bends, falls, reach to mask.