Comfort and joy I have pursued
To secure my life until my death.
Simple and humble joys I chase, issued
To me through labor, hell, and dragon's breath.
This cup of joy that all men seek,
It's contents: love, companionship, and cash
Has proven elusive and when in hand to drink
Is dashed and spilled among the ash
Created on the trek to find
This cup, the cup which is the author
Of every tragedy combined.
The cup is sought and to obtain
The goal, one must crawl through
Hell, stagger half-way the earth in strain
With broken legs and heart construed.
Impossible tasks are made
Our missions on the path to shade.
We preform miracles and set our bones
After the battle against the world.
Crouching in the brush filled with pain.
We see across the field, the cup's estate.
A-lush with greatness and delight;
"After pain and death, my struggle ends tonight."
O! Alas, my humble protagonist,
For through the field and past the guards
You will reach the cup. When you but kissed
The rim, it's contents, the Bards
Of life, are seen and evermore desired,
Your life is to conclude it's pain in a moment's passing
When, the Hand of Fate dashed the Cup from your grip
And spilled the contents among your life's work and pain.
All gone down the drain.
Then the Hand of Fate will throw you
Across the land, back to where you
Began. Your trek of life
Reset. Now suicide seems better than more strife.
And yet, out of the depths you rise, and after yet more tries,
Undergo greater pain, the cup is reached again.
And dashed. While the tragedy doubles in size
And back you are sent to the pit of pain.
And after ruin, you make inquiry.
"What caused my failure to arise
And Fate, my joy to compromise?
For I slew every obstacle that came to me."
For our lonely character shall find
The root of his ruin. The seed of rue
Was planted by none but him and grew,
Unbenounced and out of sight of any kind.
And when the seedling arose as bud,
Our mighty hero tripped with a thud.
"For the most minute of things caused
Your ruin," the lone Muse sings.
The place of your rest,
Where you sat at church,
The brightness of the Moon
Or where a hat and cloak rest.
These are reasons for a good family's ruin.
So avoidable and small,
Yet they cause the mighty to fall
And despair and pain to live in.
And so we sit and kick ourselves
For the mistakes we made that caused our death
When our energy and hope were squeezed drier than sand
And cup was dashed from our calloused hand.
The weeping lover, in arms his love.
The pitiful prisoner, cursing above.
The torn brother, his own flesh dead.
Are all results of the cup dashed
After their very souls bled.
Truly, "All the earth is but a stage
And its people actors!" 'Tis good sense.
The stars are weeping in the sky,
Our vast, eternal audience.
Musings over the tragedy of "Spanish Maine" by PC Wren.
Written on 6-17-15
