These awful moments don’t end, they drag on and inward.

Time should erase, and heal the distasteful mime of pain,

over and above us,

ringing out like a rag.

Though fighting makes us feel weak, and like century old dignity is being stolen from our wells.

There will be nothing left– and how can this breed such an anxiety, that  ratchets though our marrow?

Some say death is easy–and living, living is truly difficult. What about the in between?

Were we given air in our lungs,

just so we could know what it feels like to choke?

There comes a time to face consequence–finally being made to pay prices and dig our own ditches.

Being given baggage full of burden, just to be laced with dull destinations–

left to be just worthy and empty enough,

to live awful and confused.


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