Myriad despondencies
are born in me behind these walls
Where I can see what I might be
But cannot grasp from daily droll

I push, persist, to make ends meet
But in the end what I must greet
Is driven to me: mediocrity

Afflictions brought forth from the mind
Where sheltered, crippled, nothing aligned
And in myself I cannot find
The truth of self

So I retire upon this shelf
My sanity to be remembered
From this eleventh of November

I have given up on ambition
For life dealt me an ill position
Which cannot be regained
In a myriad of pain