It’s just a story we tell ourselves
We will be well
And even Gods forged of longing, cannot always save our plea for preservation
And please, some peace
For the weary, are not the old
They are the ones who know the sear of unwanted pain
An ache rising like wave again, merciless in return
The loss of dreams comes softly as snow
We dream ourselves complete
Waking unable to breathe
This sheltering land sometimes permits tornadoes
When all around shakes, we are battered and bruised
And because we still stand, others never witness, the deep sink of our soul
Or indeed, that dark place we go
When night only burdens with unseen fear
A temperature, a loss of balance, this unknowing doctors touch, with gloved hand
As we find ourselves, subject to midnight
We, who have never been this person
Arising, as if we could separate and escape, inevitable places
Was it really me? Who gasped for breath and cried out to spirits never tested?
As has always been for each life line
Thinking invulnerable, tugged back to truth
All of us wear a harness, all of us hold an allotment
It is the wicked mirth of terror when first we gaze into our future and see the end
No amount of protest will stave
But maybe, maybe with light and courage
With nothing more than salved persistence
We can hold back that day and spend one more