PESSIMISM 5  

A sheaf of paper was his hope
He prayed often he wasn't a dope;
Dopeness was worth escaping in that hour
There was nothing, no personal power.

And he climbed the rigging of his own self
Spied far off lands by a gulf; swooped awkwardly
With graceful birds who showed him all conditions
           Were merely surds.

"Take us from the pains of midnight
When light is the deepest shadow"
So it became a chant of transformation
Competing with furious turbines and elation.

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