We wait For an epiphany, For some Revelation Of what to do, Of whom To do it with. The only sound Is that Of a leaf-blower, Run by someone Who already knows What his job Is supposed to be. I guess I knew... once; Or thought I did. But forty years Turns out A lot longer Than I supposed, And change Harder to evade Than I imagined. Barely half Those forty years Now are done What am I to do? What do I Want to do? The world Doesn't seem to care: "Do anything at all! I will grind You down. Though a part Of Me, You are The tiniest grain Of sand In my Time And" I fear to write The thought, The thought that I do not matter. But I no longer know Whether I do Or not. I no longer Seem to know Much at all.
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