Sense Of Futility Poem by Julia Luber

There's nothing you can do about that. And perhaps it is that exact sense of futility
that makes its trigger soar with such complicity. And feel in cause a power fresh and
new.Her sense of soaring obviously revolves around you spiraling down, collapsing
in every way all the way around. The state of balance assumed through out the day;
reached that plateau of understanding what it is one can not say. And all the effort
finally at plateau. It is her time to swoop down and ruin it, you know. She does it so
often, so repeatedly. so unashamedly- it's like her victory parade enfueled show.
How much agony it causes you, she does not exactly know-not ever inch and each
stitch of rotted tongue; but its overall sense and relativity, feels like her zenith of
a kind of heaven, assumed through profound and unforgivable incivility. There is
nothing you can do. So sad and unfortunate that it is haunting you.