With much vexation brooding deep within the self,
The foil of every thought is parsed and looped,
There erect thick bars and crosses to the south,
To be unmoved and hence to rail against,
Yet with a step the rage is past: it was a foolish game.
Though in it's passing I have found a meager grip,
The hem of strength in calloused hands.
Pushing then till strength is spent,
Trembling, the arms find trembles more,
Final strength is found like flecks of gold,
Amidst the sand through which I wade,
Against myself, ever scorning gravity,
That pins me down, fastens all my seams,
Making muscles stew to fuller force.