My Nerves

My nerves are shot. This savage, makeshift ride
Has undermined my confidence at last:
I've given up my dream, of something vast
And wonderful found on the underside
Of forest underbrush, identified
By experts as a template of the past,
Written in ferns and branches. I held fast
Too long to this. Ambition has now died.

Hope makes me shake, but no, I'm not afraid —
Because I have no hope, I have no fear,
No past. I'm living in the present here,
Waiting for slow death in a forest glade.
I've been outwitted, outmanoeuvred, played.
My nerves are shot. Things will be worse next year.