But for some cruel jest are not we all perennially ailing…
Are not our lives just pictures passing by?
We, blindfold, in their wake are trailing,
Are hardly ourselves… And at the best of times
We solely hope yet for another handout
At someone’s twisted mercy and before
We ever realise it’s us we cede so freely
It’s far too late… We sob and try no more.

Shall not we fight, defiant, our doubts and envy?
Shall not we hold the fastest to our dreams?
And from our deepest selves shall not we draw our powers
When all is lost and there’s no life within?

It’s down to us to down the cup we’re given.
There is no shame in failing. All we can
Is to keep going on, perennially ailing,
However cruel and short our span.