artwork by yours truly © Sprague Thomson 2020

shot spent

an altverse

Any thing yet,

needs to

emerge.

There’s no rush,

no haste,

but worn out

patience.

Tiresome eyes,

sore feet and hands.

This mother

of struggle

has been

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going on

for seven odd years.

I am what I am;

kaput,

and dog-tired,

bone-weary.

From talking

about

my broken

being and bones.

As a kid, this is how I looked when I was sick but didn’t wanna be ill. My body remembers, so here I am having fought pain and discomfort, setback and mourning of an old life, for some odd seven years.

I’ve sown, but I might be too tired to yield.

© Sprague Thomson 2020

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