Thursday, July 15, 2021

Dying dream

A hope so long grasped
That my fingers are white
From cut off circulation
My stuborness won't let go

It feels like I have a destination
Like persistence will take me there
Could this be decades of self harm
A false hope leading me nowhere

What will I loose if I embrace the futility
If I accept the gamble as improbable 
Am I less the person I want to be
Without my rose colored lenses.