The Future (caution a poem of depression)

When every action aches the soul,
What can we hope for but the smiling grave,
When every truth we've tried to speak,
Brings pain, to someone,
What else can we do but lie.

Oh let me lie, only in the smiling grave,
Where worms that are not dainty,
Will enjoy, and swarming bacteria,
My folly's wreck in truth devour,
Until my matter's platter is licked clean.

I have tried every judo hold on life,
And still it throws me, over its hard shoulder,
Sneering at my attempts to do what's right,
Preventing flat, my few attempts at wrong,
Pinning me down, and enforcing its ways.

Oh of the two opponents, Death, and Life,
The former is more quick and merciful,
Dispatching with a single coup d'grace,
What otherwise is eeked out over years,
In pinprick injuries, and sly indignities.

Oh Death, when is thy sting.
Oh Grave, when is thy victory.
Oh, when, oh when.