As I stand still today,
shoulders down, knees hurting,
a look at my knuckles have me begging-
begging myself to stop.
The years have passed-
the decades worth of longing only draining,
every other night, slumber is a dream,
the early morning a hazy state.
Mind in dimensions of confusion and agony,
with answers of never asked questions,
and questions unsaid from the trepidation.
By now the heavens would have heard,
welcoming me in through theirs.
With another one I would be,
brewing tea at the netherworld,
yet against this obstinate world of mortals,
no amount is more- every bit a little less.
And no- I am not done,
wearing my fatigue as an armor I straighten up,
another knock, another hit, another bruise to my fist.
Regardless of who stands behind this slab,
I shall keep knocking until it opens,
though I might know, one day, of what lies ahead,
I shall knock through the pain and persevere,
for closed out from me is the only desire I have-
the empty essence of this futile life.