3.27.22

The Sage is not sentimental.

I hold my depths only in solitude.

Drag myself up right and brave the waters of my past.

Bitter tears wash over me.

My face is soaked with a profound sorrow.

My bones feel like blades inside my body.

Just to inhale is task on its own.

I survive because I choose to.

It is always my choice, but it is not always my desire.

Good thing I know that cycles pass.