I always spill my seed on fallow ground,
not apt to learn the lessons from before.
It lands without a ripple or a sound,
and withers up unnoticed on the floor.
The trick is knowing when it’s time to quit,
to stop the rot and sow your seed elsewhere;
to find a place where you’re a better fit,
instead of forcing circles through a square.
Unfurnished with the wherewithal to thrive,
I stay and bang my head against the wall,
ensuring that my line will not survive,
and nothing follows where my footsteps fall.