Quicksand

When, near the end of my days --

the hourglass weeping

its final gold tears --

still gripped in anonymity's

pathetic vise, still

gaping at the likes

of Aiken, Keats and Rimbaud,

having whored about

trying to please both

Calliope and Baal,

who will see into the blue heart

of this ruby-shod wannabe

mired in the eye of mediocrity,

hopelessly scrabbling

and foraging for the

world's finest phrase, 

so fervently needing to be known

as to drown while quite alive,

peeling a mottled apple

for some hungry child?