I have whittled away sorrows
in a tempest that hurled life’s
abuse. After the storm came not the calm but raking ancient sorrows.
Frittering away does not do,
what does is embracing self,
maudlin, and thinking all is lost.
Call me a pessimist if you will, this is a tired song
not ill. Parting is one measure, then lay siege to all treasure.
Whittling away sorrows is sharpening a tool
come on everyone I am no fool.
