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.