mundane cataclysms

                A bit of an enigma,
        I’d defend my mechanisms;
            Though no panhandler for stigma,
    I’ve put on my criticisms.

  I’ve not earned all my bad-badges;
Who has, who’d brag? What-on-earth’s a clock worth!?
      First years, twenty, and thirty-three!
  Forty-and-so-forth from youth’s bag o’ burglaries.

    Heavy enough, some, to’ve buried
        Themselves by now,
Those hidden weights;
            Trudged as they’ve been,
    Dug-in by daily plow,
Reins ever-hard at the waist…

  I’ve wished, at times, to’ve lost half I’ve chased,
      But what a waste to’ve missed the good!
Ah, and how goldenly good the good has been:
  I’d still be me were it left to waking again.

    Life’s a rake—and she’s squirrelly
            (So I’ve buckled-in a few cynicisms);
        Still, hope-polished am I to pearly
                By many mundane cataclysms.

Previous Post:
    Poetry: Khazad-Dûm
        https://windstrewn.com/2019/10/13/khazad-dum/