The Cage II

If I write or read or draw or paint,
I soon feel there's not time enough.
I have squandered, stolen from eternity.
I push my art through time,
and shove and thrust and drive
like the ram of the belated,
until exhausted I believe myself content.
(How close are fatigue and satisfaction!)
But if I leave my cage,
the protection of my burrow,
I'm so damned smart,
seeing every aspect of everything not my own,
understanding so completely all not of my concern
handing pieces of advice so biblical to the afflicted of an affliction I never felt,
that frankly, I don't know what's best:
to stay home and struggle for every breath,
or go around being Sovereign of all that's not mine.