Half removed, half-heartedly 

poking through underbrush of the day, 

wondering if the best has passed 

with barely a mention 

and why can’t we turn around 

when the way seems blocked. 

It hurts like sweat on a jagged wound 

when you don’t know if healing will come. 

It’s all part of the same story 

and I’ve dog-eared some passages 

but can’t recall where I’ve left the book.