The end of the beginning or the beginning of the end?
Struggling through the briar patch of what might have been
has left me weary, almost undone,
particles of remorse underline my thoughts.
Still I somehow know not to grieve on and on,
instead try stoically to accept the face slaps of fate,
step around the often ferocious obstacles.
Nothing is accomplished by weeping or self-pity,
must like myself before others can like me.
The ground underneath me has not really crumbled like I believed;
I can still stand erect if I try.
Others have survived the miseries that befell me,
others equally broken have been repaired by perseverance,
slipped these self-imposed shackles learning to dance.
Once I was funny, is there hope I will be once again,
or has grim failure permanently stifled my laughter?
Is there still light beneath the shadow,
are there answers undiscovered?
Any chance, however slender, that tomorrow might be better,
or days to come passing unfettered with remorse?
Until I grasp the ring I will likely never know.