The pain, forged by both fond memory and misery…
Like an old sports injury.
It used to be sharp and jarring-
Now, a sporadic shrug.
There was a time when I fought…
Valiantly, to become the unbroken.
But each chip of me grew smaller after each shattering.
And the world now seems to have lost its tape dispenser.
Clocks, aplenty though,
As they mull over and measure their minutes
Their support turns to spite, toughness…
We all grow tired,
Just in different ways.
But is the given that we will grow
Or that we can stand to remain tired?
