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.