Headaches pierce the temples, thoughts put to ink

A cursor left blinking in mid-sentence.

The hours weaving needle through fabric

A garment left to hang in a closet.

Seasons’-soaked shoes slipping, sliding on drops

Of perspiration, punctured by grass blades.

One step too short of the pedestal, lost

A future by a point—a stabbing ache.

The gash so deep, the blood puddles, not spills

‘Til stitching hands can lock it under scars.

To feel the joints balloon from lumbricals

And read the books ‘til eyes roll back to dark.

And still, someone can’t live to fail, to think

Lost in the word gone—this is the worst thing.