NO CATACLYSM THIS

No cataclysm this, down-bearing,

no upwelled storm, gusts wailing, pained,

no eagle, at the innards tearing

of Prometheus, helpless chained...

Things are just futile, fruitless, barren,

yet with no tragedy therein.

And the heart goes on dying, riven

by no sword; needled, pin by pin.