Foul Sweep

  I begin to suspect that nothing has meaning...
    that every daylight hour is me bent, spent, lying many eternities
at the mercy of monotony.  No thing I've done really matters,
since as always... there is someone who will - if I won't. 
  So that my heart cannot chose right without being undone. 
To this end, I have learned nothing, no lesson really -
  just repetition wearing a groove that I am impelled to follow.