Let me blunt my pain with a pretty phrase
the way a disciple of Kierkegaard should,
the way all poets do:

I Panic with the clarity of the night sky,
all turned about like the captain of a boat
leading his ship of the Absurd
through Sisyphus' strait
till I slip away smoothly
on a rowboat to the immortal land of death,
naively thinking I had cheated my creator
of playing the cruelest trick in the book
(and the oldest too).
But he still gets the last laugh;
an Immortal always does?.