TT- A Brush with Insignificance

I feel like Dante, lost in the nine levels of hell
—I'd taken a wrong turn and Virgil my ever vigilant guide
had left without me.
He crawled up over Satan's scaly carapace
into the fresh air of a transitory state.
I stayed believing myself secure from the horrors that belied me, but even as I cleared a new oasis
and stood back to refresh myself
the void crumbled in about itself
filling in like the sand
fills a dug hole on a beach.
The waves go out,
the waves come in.
This is called Job Security,
but it is a little piece of hell on earth...
Now I've succumbed to the pleasures
of my home, where I recline
and wield my brush,
dipping into the infinite palette
waving it higlety piglety at a fresh canvas.
It is a joy to escape the rigors of responsibility
into a paradise of distraction. What was, isn't now,
and tomorrow's another day; what is it they say?
“Carpe diem?”
I say 'fresh fish smells best in nature's broth'.
Ha ha, not really—that's stupid.