seasons of the blood

how the weathers of the
body change daily, in
tune with the changing
weather beyond the windows

no two days are the same:
I wake to energy and action
I wake lame
I wake to exhaustion
I wake to a worn
spirit like the tiny flame
of a guttering candle

it is hard to plan
in shifting sands:
to steer in rapids;
to have the oars
taken from your hands

such burdens of the flesh -
poor fragile beings -
so soon done-in
by living

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