At some point we'll all break.
Under the black heavyweight of living.
From the purple-hearted soldier
To the people of a wayward god
The circus strongman with
a muscle wasting disease
The plastic family melting away
sisters of the blistered rosary.
At some point we'll all break.
Then whisper desperate prayers
to a disappointed God.
This is our fractured fate.
Brave in the sunshine
curled in a ball in the shadows.
At some point we'll all break
under the black, heavy weight of living.
And just exist under the light, pale wing of not living.
We'll all break...eventually.
I missed the rain
but the metaphorical hit
between the eyes
left me reeling
as I read the water smudged
calling card
of the wasting disease.
Crushingly brutal, this wasting disease,
That it eats through me with increasing ease.
Oh, in the painful rigidity of lack luster limbs,
My mortal friend still fights, still clings,
As world passes by on the summer breeze.
Who would have thought I would suffer this young,
With a mortality so terse and highly strung.
Inside of a sickness, with it's wide open jaws,
I am gripped so tightly by it's hungry claws.
Yet I don't know how all this has begun.
Here I am fighting, again and again,
Just for the chance to feel alive once again.
Each moment of weakness, of faintness and ill,
I long for my mortal to bend to my will.
As I ask for my body to burden the strain.
So what it comes down to, my mortal and I,
My body is broken, yet no one knows why.
So, I cling to this life and it rejects my requests.
I suppose I am my mortal as mortality suggests.
But, surely I can fight. Surely I can try.
Sing, my secret love, down Parisienne avenues
On the songbird tongues, in the music of spheres,
To travel the heavens in search of communion,
Or echo on cliff tops to fall on deaf ears.
Burn, my tropic love, like flash-fire infernos
Through faraway forests, landscapes of trees,
To kiss and absorb the kindling of kindness,
Or fade and expire from a wasting disease.
Arise, my strong love, a colossus of craving,
On the crust of the earth with a head in the sky,
To straddle the globe with an ancient prevailing,
Or to wither and age, to crumble and die.
Be still, my glacial love, on the tip of an iceberg,
In the infinite sprawl of an Antarctic waste,
And watch the horizon for bright signs of life,
Some signal this heart never will be misplaced.
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