No mighty creed here, or clever rhymes, Just a heart, broken a thousand times- Not by valor in heroic deeds, But by life's tiny cuts, tiny bleeds. There's such brokenness, that one can scarcely trace What once was whole, there in its place. The accumulated everyday Casts down and ruins, in its own way. The trickles wear; though each little stream, Alone, slides off unnoticed, I deem- A never-ending, drab procession That cuts through nerve, hope, and conviction. What can I do, but set it ablaze? What can I do, but fight on, always? There's no shutting up or sitting down, No lying back to wait while I drown. Cloven, shattered- all this I may be, From nothing great, no high destiny, But I'll gather myself up, go on, Sling those bitter shards, till the last one is gone.