Desiderata Lll Poem by Morgan Michaels

The gods abandon him that shirks their gifts.
They wait and wait as the fool
Awaits his rendez-vous with the beautiful,
Dreaming it his fate, the thing he's born for
But denying they live or care-
Beauty's sole Makers and Bestowers.
He waits and the moment never comes-
The one like a single bat flown from a cave's mouth
At dusk, over the green hills, under a violet sky
Uttering actual, inaudible cries- it never comes.
On porches of air they hover-crouch
Listening for a word, the breath of a prayer:
Denial hardening, he delays
Life loses savor
His words run on, he will palaver
Gazing at all, they will all look away.
Every decision wrong,
He'll find ill in all
But never the sweet smelling good-
Expecting all from everyone
He will get nothing from anyone
Or the good done him
Will sour- himself powerless
To deem it good or that it was done him.
No one will believe him.
He will hope for all, but expect nothing.
The good he does will tinkle, the bad resound
And prove stupidity, ineptitude.
Nothing will be his concern
And every fault, others'.
He will discern the vero motive prompting each deed
But convince no one.
Like a mirage, he will follow the truth, ever-receding,
Avow what ought be forgotten or never seen:
Mountains ant-hills, ant hills mountains
Nothing he does will be valid or worth a sou;
Disliking his fellows, they'll dislike him for disliking them
Early virtues will become late obsessions.
Powerless to distinguish flattery from sincerity
Rancor will underscore his age.
All the good done him
Will sooner or later sour
Himself powerless to deem it good
Or that it was done him.
No one will believe him.
He will long for death but dread it.
Hoping for all he will expect nothing.
The good he does will tinkle, the ill resound
proving ignorance, ineptitude.
Nothing will be his fault.
He'll believe flattery and minimize true praise
His friends will drop him.
Even his Maecenas, standing by the door
will shake his head and say 'go, now,
to the house I have given you'.
He will take on a pithed look
and live in the gray land,
having lost the faculty to finish or even to begin.