Darwin's Fit (Sunday Sonnet)

Darwin's Fit

The vision it bleeds over, when your eyes fail
Reality's paint is mixed with gristle and sweat.
Those big tower hopes may not be your best face
at least not this early, before your first stall.

When you strive for questions and make that call.
When you pine for bastion's simplest form.
Hit powered hopes may not be an escape,
and your early questing doesn't yield a full haul.

The vision breathes poison, for one and for all.
Reality's clay becomes fixed with the wrong weight,
and cold showered hopes lose all of their shape.
This early questing, it buckles and bawls.

This picture of certainty, longing and bliss.
Makes boxers of angels, lovers and twits.
No one eats more than the one who won't quit.

Kneel down and pucker for Satan's sweet kiss.
You can hate it, or fuck it, deep in the pits.
Success is as preposterous as Darwin's fit.