Diamond In The Rust Poem by Kevin Maroney

Despair in cycle, right on time,
A feeling oft expressed in prose and rhyme,
deadly purpose set arrow straight,
on a bow of dire fear and hate.
Yet out of time, one cannot escape,
no matter how hard he stares and gape,
for it's a game, though unfair at that,
from which the only escape is lying flat.

But such an action I dare not espouse,
for indeed it's an action from which no man will rouse,
a terrible fate and dire deed,
it ascertains nothing for bettering creed.
Indeed, this creed is essential too,
a thing most never find before they say adieu.
Strange it is, a most inquisitive sight,
one that holds through the ages, both of peace and spite.

What's the creed of he, my friend,
not the self, no no, I said.
There's nothing wrong with all apathy,
or is there, I asked, some greater free?
Nothing in life can be played like a game,
it's all hard work, no lunches the same.
Each one's new, each one's tough,
A hard diamond to be picked from the rough.

Now let me go, for I feel I must,
pick my 'friend' from the metal he's dared to let rust.