Again, I want to take up pen and write
Against the horror of the growing night
That creeps upon the world. The fading light
Of hope that lingers yet is growing dim
Amid a flood, and I can barely swim
In calmest waters. I grow yet more grim
As I stare through my dirty windows’ panes
And see the world, see its increasing pains
And know I can do little ‘gainst the gains
That swelling ill accrues. I strive for joy,
Of course, and look for something to upbuoy
Myself, but need more than a simple toy
To move my mind. Today, both pen and page
Can offer little to my mood assuage.

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