Pain pitted me to the post, and in defeat
I drag these heavy limbs across the finish line.
Body battle-worn, at loss
with how to rise from this crumpled pile.
The devil’s flames lick my feet
yet here I lie, stone cold,
crowds hurling their hurt in oblivion
to the collected suffering we already carry on our collective shoulders.
But carry on, we do; and if I have to crawl
over shards of broken glass with a broken heart
I will get us through;
the world has good in her yet.
She promised me once, and I hold her to it,
joy wins the war in the end.