I see myself assume a sense of ruin.

The rumbling gears are grinding to a halt.

The screeching wheels are muted much too soon.

My occupation now is finding fault.

I make no effort to disguise my fate.

The semblance of reality is gone.

My consciousness of it is much too late.

What rock have I to build a church upon?

A saint in heaven is a lonely being.

A sinner on the earth is always proud.

A prophet now has trouble in forseeing;

for freedom wraps our future in a cloud.

As time commemorates eternity,

I make a virtue of uncertainty.

from "Post-Existential Sonnets," Folio I
by Tom Mellett, Austin, Texas, 1987

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