On Frailty

I lay down with a heavy heart, a pulse that beats like thunder; strong and inconsistent. I hold my fears, tight, for comfort. I grip my duvet and pillow in a vain mockery of holding, instead, a warm body. I resist day that dawns with falling rain as I try to wrest some sleep- some rest from this stalemate called 'love', where all is pain and tears and lack of trust. I become slow, conceited and spiteful, burning with an anxious sickness that is nothing new, and yet, something that one can never get used to. No matter how many times the pieces take their part: lining up, coming together, knocked down and falling away, every time the board is cleared and the game begins anew. A man with so many occupations can not always follow his heart. Though the water appears still, one should not think that it doesn't crash against the breaks.