THE UNDERDOG'S GRINDSTONE

I cannot compete,
in this world of finite possibility,
where one spurned velvet tongue
infects the throat of my neighbor
with wrongful speculation.

I cannot,
unjustly, to trespass
on fondling gossip
crooked fingers,
hoarding each thought
in miserly disease.

I must not
if the winner
entitled to nothing,
take all,
masters deception
basks in bilious limelight,
thick as envy.

So here I remain,
a prisoner to loneliness,
one utter complete failure
of my own displaced convictions.
Forgotten and careworn,
weighted millstone about my neck,
a pillaged reminder
to that barrier reef of unfettered playtime,
embattled last bastion
of hopeless innocence bound
to a world thieving over
crusts of maggot-filled bread.