Near every effort I express is less
Than what is necessary to survive;
Yet, I remain ironically alive
Although my work is not enough to bless

My life. But why then shall I acquiesce
To strife when all around me is the live,
Unending truth that I can still revive
My worthless Plod. To see within this press,

My worthless God has gifted me the tool
Of nothing; still, the only gift He has
To give. And I, His ever steadfast fool,
Must live within these scenes! I think that as
I die inside, these means I come to see:
That one thing God Himself has given me.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence: click here to read it all:

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