With your backs against a laurel
counting the leaves that fall in your book,
will you then sing of pushing onward?
Will you trust that your tears
have lengthened your whiskers,
that merely your living has earned you a platform
from which to bemoan the sad human existence?
Where once I could not bear to condemn
now disdain rises like kettle-steam,
all you who would seek to spread your despair,
but have nothing else to give.
Do you kneel at the feet of those you idolize,
that great circle you long to join,
and say there’s nothing to be found here
but another way to escape?
Resign, you vain malingerers-
better your songs go unsung
than your miseries acclaimed,
for the truth will always find a fitter vessel,
will scream through someone else’s bones.