Man oft has felt drained, a spent force,
Striving a hard nut, failing still,
A pony on a coursing course,
Huffing on a hailing steep hill,
Left, a fiend of failure to face,
Damned if balks, damned if dumps the race.
As man's not made of purest metal,
And success is enticing lure,
A mixed alloy fighting life's battle—
He fears as much frustrating failure,
As cockiness of a cock-sure,
Not getting up from a fall does rattle.
Success, a deity that need be appeased,
By sacrifice alone this goddess' pleased.
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One might have heard: the fault's not in falling; it's not trying again. Yet, real life renders no such cut and dry situations. This sonnet is born of this discomfort.
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Sonnets | 08.01.05 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A spent force! ! ! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
A spent force, of course... Thanks for visiting