Soaked Through

The sponge, a limp, tired thing,

its yellow faded, refusing to sing

a cleaner tune. My palm closed tight,

squeezed out the water, a desperate fight.

It flattened, thin, under my hand,

like all the efforts I ever planned.

Held so much, so much more than grit,

the grease of meals, the dirty bit.

Pores stretched wide, then shrunk so small,

giving everything, giving its all.

It had no choice, just to absorb,

then yield it back, a tired orb.

And now it lies, so pale and spent,

its useful purpose, truly rent.

I feel its texture, soft and weak,

no more good work left for it to seek.