A Sonnet about Enough

When dubious life seems thoroughly unfair,

Melatonin sinks; the clocks wail through the night;

Tiresome days pursue their nights of care,

Yet still the road ahead denies my sight.

The peacock's feathered crown the hen may tear,

Yet neither flares, but sneezes at the light;

For all diurnal blood conspires with care,

While septuagenarian mist haunts our night.

In theory, everyman kills what he'd be,

For kin, for society, or Macbeth's height;

He outdoes self, and learns not “enough” to see,

From salad days to stoic circles' plight.

Thus I know myself as ascetics knew:

Till this day's done, I'm neither me nor you.