Two Rhymes

Futility II
A lifetime of labors
for what one hopes to be,
by books or by sabers,
but to spit in the sea
for all that is its worth
in the backwash of brine:
spittle upon the earth,
such is this work of mine.

In a barn blackly bearded with a bog-borne mold
an ill omen was birthed, a goat horned tenfold,
gutting his mother as he came unto the world,
and in his nebular eyes the stars glowed and swirled.
His horns grew coiled around and into his own skull,
piercing his brains until his wits were dim and dull,
for his was a crown cursed by banal happenstance,
the misfortune that occurs by mere random chance,
and he grinned like an idiot god who could see
the meaning of Life, Death, what was, is, and would be.

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