HIS CHALICE

There are those things that come at you

Hard

And you want to fight

But

Your very veins are manacles

That strangle

Your reflexes

Leaving you lying limp, letting it come at you…

Hard.

The only protest is in your tears

Resistance, in that loud scream in your head

That only the shadows

That surround you

Can hear

There are those things you cannot explain

Only your heart turns and turns

In its place,

Shudders violently

And bleeds itself

Dry

While your tummy

Hums with a dull ache

And you fear you might just

Die.

Yet those things,

You are sure,

Are good for you.

So this is me;

Skin burning,

Joints near arthritic,

Singing a song of thanksgiving

All in chromatic notes

As if the minor keys

Will give my song the undertone

Of the hurt with which I sing it

This is me,

Pausing right before I take a sip,

To sing a broken chorus;

Could it?

This cup?

Fall?

From my lips?

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