Deliberate Fix

Sometimes, some days it gets far too much to fight, claw, cling to the vestiges of dear life; the light at the end of the tunnel recedes, and all that is done scars and endlessly bleeds; then tired, broken, the towel thrown in, a weary shadow, a scarecrow of what we once were. No way, no how can the far vistas be seen, black suffocation, dropped veil of darkness chokes the vision and snuffs the light, drowning ambition in dense waves of night; the voice, the inner worm, says it's all for the best and so it ends, by default, by love in confusion. Sometimes, some days, what we do is from guesswork, not self-pity, nor cruel intent, or even selfishness; the deliberate fix our handiwork exudes is a symbol, a totem when logic eludes, and those that we love we must pray understand that sometimes, some days, we can see no other way.