and i wonder where to draw lines on my capacity,
where might i mark a finish line that i hope never to reach.
for i'd rather lie bloodied and battered amidst the fields
than to but graze the red that may set me free.
men and glory; i'm meant to embody the same.
but i am here, folded under the duvet, tired and
wrapped in limbs i wish were but my own,
but i'm a fragile soul who yearns the taste of raw hurt.
my endurance wears thin upon this timeless race;
i am sure to be fighting fate with free will
(something of a dream really for our will can't be free;
it is controlled, managed, robotically and not at all human)
but i was, perhaps, graced by god's touch upon my mind
that i'm aware of mortality as opposed to too greedy a man
for insignificance is truly an acknowledgment of worth,
that my sentience isn't wasted on the whims of ignorance.
but i'm dumb and still but a child on this youthful earth,
and i'm burning beneath the gaze of the future,
but i'll keep drawing stupid lines and hanging back behind,
until there's nowhere to go but into oblivion.
terminal illness — xiii
YOU ARE READING
These Fruits of Boyhood
PoetryA man's fight with the gods always ends in bloodshed. Thus a man's fight with himself always ends in despair. something of a contemplation poetry, perhaps *unedited
