Confusion

the wornout man lay gasping
tired from being wrong,
tired of being walked upon
by a vain and thoughtless throng,

he crawls across his pages,
the book of life he wrote,
and wonders if his soul will pass
or like a fly be smote,

Did he write in vapid tint
or tears and blood for ink,
tightly locked in Fate's embrace
inside some mental kink,

for floods will come in every life
and fame and fortune too,
and on and on he takes his days
until his book is through.

1975