\February 20, 2025
I cast about the memories of life,
I search for meaning that is not quite there.
I often pray for a break from the strife,
But I know this is our world laid bare.
So we wander through the bald-faced desert,
Purgatory, I believe this is called.
There is no rhyme or reason to the hurt,
We are the losing victims of this fraud.
So to the victors go the spoils, they say,
And I do not doubt that this must be true.
Losers have history written away,
Defeat is our only shared milieux.
Does that mean we should all but give up hope?
Gallows humor – in a word, I say, “Nope.”