What a way to write yourself
to wild and weary life:
listless whisper of lame imitation,
barely there blistering bluster,
borne to clumsily muster lacklustre
miracles.
That it works is not evident yet.
What a wrong to right, yourself,
with your own hapless hands:
fumbled hunting, fervent forage for
foundation to a functional future.
Fevered feeding frenzy to devour the
defeat dragging my flailing fail-boat
forever downwards.
Here is where the the epiphany is.
What a wound to will yourself,
wilted and worthless, to win against:
what wonder to wrangle tragedy
into a tomorrow that teaches you
how to be whole.
This is the only war that matters.
©sweepingly
©sweepingly
S