This fertile futility creates havoc,
Makes me undo what’s already done—
Challenge all I know about the unknown,
Gives new meaning to lost and found.
My first impression of a last resort,
Fails to answer questions, left and right,
Leaves me top-heavy on the bottom,
Without a cure for the common cold.
Face it, I’m a dead gal walking
Through a plate glass ceiling,
Feeling what shouldn’t be felt—
A single shock, half a dozen times.
Please pray for my solipsistic soul;
It’s married itself to spinsterhood,
Refusing these acceptance letters,
Fertile futility run amuck.