There’s Nothing Left But Work

There’s Nothing Left But Work

The choices all made by you and not you
And Fate fat old self-satisfied horn beast,
A dragon twisting in mad whooshing flight–
Her little say also swirled in the tea.

So whatchya gonna do? It’s up to you.
You flee the scene? thin blue line winds you down
up into tidy red-shine ribbon bow
I’m sorry: you’re the scene now, my dear.

Take it or leave it; remember only please:
leave it and laughter drops always thud dead
from knowing it’s a lie

There’s nothing left but to work, nothing left
but throw your shoulder through the bulwark brace.

Brute force won’t rescue the princess, won’t save
your soul, won’t change the tide, won’t help anyone.

How can I bury myself in my work when misdirected work is worse than worthless?
How can I bury myself in work when work needs insight to work and I’m just
some fool who wanted to bury himself in mindless work
and in that way beat the beat that can’t be beat?

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