My eyes mimic the skies in dripping sighs and watered truths to battle lies of a messed up system we insist is care, but never finding any there. Shrapnel are these words to purge a putrid sickness of tired limbs and synonyms for various painful phrases. Clouds cover a moon I may have too soon lost to vision, but a mission to take it from my heart won’t part without permission. Warmth of fanned out heat playing sidekick to my seat and defeat of feeling joyous, but this soul is not porous and I hold my pride. Tides change and energetic surgeries heal from the real places they’ve touched, and though much can be praised of these hazy transformations, exhaustion is but a drop away. Even so, I’ll be okay.

kbww