An Exercise in Futility

Set afoot to carve a niche,
Blisters and burns hardly deterred,
Thorns and beds of nails,
Pierced the foot but not his will,
A punctured heel and higher spirits,
But so soon left a tired soul,
Left him in darkness to reminisce,
No stone unturned, Another milestone,
Mossy, No doubt, But brought a cheer,
Victory of a special kind, Uncelebrated,
Like the death of a true martyr,
Buried under earth without a name,
Flickered a flame ever so fickle,
Elixir of hope, for the aching heart,
Nothing amiss, her heaving bosom,
Deep in her eyes, embedded dreams,
And lips, ever so full,
A mere mention, A million repercussions,
A gentle tap, And drenched in perspiration,
A little care, Was all the yearning,
The once stolid heart now irrevocably unstoic,
Meanders down his cheek, Tears and more tears,
Till it leaves a salty trail,
An exercise in complete futility,
For the time leaves a man sadder and wiser,
And he wonders what a subtle redefinition then,
Would have done to the constant murmur,
In his head, this persistent battle,
Him against Himself.