The weight of living


The earth pivots around
the sun once more and I ache
as my mother's joints grow sore. My father weakens
in the winter freeze, hardly shielding him from
spoiling in midsummer heat.
I sense my sister’s discomfort in
Autumn, her lacerations laid like bark on a tree. Why is it, my family,
treading through anguish on life's bitter sleeve?
But it’s me, it seems, whos always
staring down the barrel of mortals gun.
But it’s the viability, the condition of existence
that makes creation hard to outrun. The
plague of animation, the burden of survival, the little things worth
dying over.

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