I will not say the years have worn me well
nor that I am some paragon of joy
but I’ve survived, my chest has borne the hell
of every hurt you sing: a bright-eyed boy
who grew through granite ground to secret grief,
his heart an open wound — now scarred to naught
and shattered, forced to question each belief
whereon he build his life; take happy thoughts
each one as rare as diamonds in the sky
and pile them up, a meager house of cards,
to build a life worth living, asking “why”
as he beholds old friends in greener yards.
Our destiny: to hack and slash our way
from sorrow on to joy, to better days.