Lines, on the occasion of failing to write something profound and then also failing to sleep at a reasonable hour because I decided to vent

I sat and wrote a vow of death,

And facing loss, and drawing breath.

“I know,” I said,

“We all get dead.”

I claimed I would prepare for Lethe.

And there I go again, you see,

So erudite and scholarly,

And so verbose

I’d ne’er approach

A decent line of poetry.

Two oh one nine, two oh one nine,

Antique allusions in my lines?

I must face it:

“Lethe” is shit.

Alluding Greek? I'm infantine.

Prufrock had it right, you know.

Not Lazarus – a basic schmoe.

“Attendant lord.”

And I accord.

My self-important babble blows.

I’m thirty-six, good health, and yet

I would presume to write of death?

Just stop. I’m in

A china shop,

An elephant on crystal meth.

No more “high sentence,” that’s my vow.

Speak simple truths, the here, the now.

“Sage” ill becomes

A guy so young.

No magic beans; I’ll keep the cow.

A prof said once, “I know I gave

A thought beyond you, of the grave.

You’re all too green

To catch my lean,

You’re years away, you sprightly knaves.”

“I know we’re young, but we’re not fools!”

I cried, “And we all know the rules!

We think of death

And time that’s left

Unwinding still from all our spools.”

“Jesus,” he said, “I hope not.”