Sonnet 138

As if despite this sought approaching end,
spirit must dwell on toy impediments,
loose filaments of gibberish which lend
themselves a spurious significance.
This project “cycle” was betimes yclept,
as though its trifles, complete, formed a wheel
on which flypaper kismet ever kept
stuck the bluebottle (and nothing was real).
There’s no release, still less oblivion,
only the fractious buzzing of the trapped
ego. Like something sorrowful by Donne,
lament the meat you crawled across and crapped
upon, for it though rancid yet tastes sweet,
which ultimately is the sought conceit.