My body; brittle, breaking
I can hear myself cracking
beneath the pressure...
I can withstand the weight, but I'm weathered
and continued circumstance
continue to erode all that I am.
Joy is fleeting.
Faith is depleting.
Not faith in whether I will survive,
the assurance that
with the next struggle merely moments until ...
what's the point of it all?
pulling me up for air
won't stop the rage of the sea.
The next wave is coming for me
and I wish I just had the COURAGE to drown.
What match am I for Poseidon?
What contender am I against the tide?
What defender is a kiss compared to a trident?
Perhaps it's better for the mountain to take the ocean's side ...
granting its side permission to become the shore
accepting that it is nothing more
than ocean floor.