I'm civilization without the wheel
Emitting "Universe-against-me" squeals
Nothing is anywhere I look with closed eyes
As I blister my feet all miles to no prize

Flying blind, I'll stick to any web
Always of my own secretion
Trading water holy for profane
As I squander my remission

But didn't I promise myself
This would be a good year?

© 1997 Bruce V. Bracken