Flake

I’ve fallen short of converting the sceptic,

Because his questions mask an inner world that’s hectic.

Truth in my confession, he looks on with contention.

My assertions are examined under suspicion.

He pledges his devotion if I provide certainty, 

As if from his place, he could find security.

That’s why I find him knocking on my door,

His eyes pleading for me to show him more.

But I can no longer beckon, beg, and implore

While his ship incessantly docks then depart from this shore.

He appears progressive when he finds no other bays to explore.

Only to go into regression when routine is a bore.

I’ve expended my time and efforts in an act of futility.  

Sacrificed sincerely only to be treated with hostility