Sta.sh
I have not become stronger
in the broken places.
Bones ache of age
of misuse
of disuse
and each cracking joint
is an audible reminder
of missteps
of misjudgments
of paths walked too long
and of steps
that should have been,
but were never taken.
Bent fingers jut
from palms of sandpaper,
calloused and crinkled,
they cannot grip
with that same eager desperation
of a child seeking comfort.
Black becomes gray
at the gates
of troubled temples and
dreams,
once saliently sweet,
decay on the tongue
like the sound
of necessary words produced,
but never employed.
I have not become stronger in the broken places,
but scars and bruises,
sprains, cuts and concussions this day
are always better than
regrets and second guessing
tomorrow.
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somehow still afloat (must be a miracle, i'm sure)
trying to to keep going
hope your days have been brighter, though?
They're a little more calm, but still hectic. You?
You, too?
I hope things have begun looking up since you last sent this?
Well done!