My throat tastes sour and I can’t breathe.
My heart beats at the expense of my sanity.
What can I do but grit my teeth,
And blame myself for vanity?
Yet, even in self-deprecation, it seems
Cruel to neglect truest affections. Never before,
Never will be one more worthy that I beteems.
So I searched for the note, the very end, at my very core.
These puny thoughts plague words and mind,
‘Til the tillers tilled and crushed more than kind,
To set parched earth free from drought,
To grow anew a stubborn sprout.
I will live.