In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.