I'm so uneven. I cannot see, an end to grieving, or another me
My joy is stolen, drifting, floating. I cannot see, the good in anything
Getting old
It's far from me just how things grow. Is this hardened soil not my home?
Hands calloused, legs weary, my brow is low and thoughts are heavy
How can this be so? It thins my bones, let's in the cold
How can I go? Getting old
How to know when to run can be, for some something so scary
"I will stay." it is to say so gently, "there is something here worth saving!"
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