Forlorn the mop that's always mired in mess;
it craves for clean as moon-crazed moths love light;
let's mourn the jumping jar-hemmed frogs sealed tight,
the mists that cry and cling but miss caress;
brewed schemes that turn from froth to flat in bars.
the want for more made poor! Beans will obsess
they're caviar; straw frets to thread guitars;
a sorrow, low by no, that grasps for yes:
each sigh that tries to fill what yell has said.
a vain girl's ghost that mirrors give the air;
and holely moles-some blind faith prays they'll see-
the hand-chilled lonely, wild in white to wed;
and twigs that would be wood late czars last wear.
Our griefs seem brief. Each leafs that single tree.

Glenn Bagshaw

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/existence-it-s-a-pity/