I hate the word “futility,”
   though words
are my weapon
                        and my shield.
  Somehow someone
slipped through my ear canal
   and started talking
way back when.           Seven.
Sin, humility, scourge,
confession, grievous,
words I learned at seven
through my most grievous fault.
Ten times over
I have killed them all
but they spring back
to life, grotesque, insinuating,
just when I’m about to get somewhere.
Maybe I will lay down my arms.
Maybe it’s the hated word, the fight,
that resurrects them.
Give up, try not to give away
that futility is just another feint.
What might happen if I
really fought no more?
S. Robbins  from Readings

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