I’ve But Late Returned

I've but late returnèd
From a wander through
The land of the
Lame
Where the briskest of
Walkers leaves the laurels
To the snails,
Whose belly-jelly slime-slides
Are the envy of the day.
The only dewy breezes
Are felt if you fall,
Prey to weak wills and gravity
And all applaud the
Speed that you've achieved
In giving up and giving in
To the inevitable decay.

In fact do nothing to delay
Sweet entropy, whose promise
To take all pain away
Is the only deal without
Conditions you will find;
So hope for hope's decease
Your peace to
Realise.