I died a little every day, it seemed,

Raw sun and wind conspired to burn me blind,

While other vagaries of nature schemed

To strip away the marrow of my prime.

There through that gauntlet—every day, a price;

The brain, the bone, the sinew—all assailed—

Yet on I struggled, straining toward new heights;

Each win I charted trailed by two that failed.

But life is tethered more or less to hope,

Even as death stares straight into our eyes;

Still through the darkness ever more we grope

And yield our fondest dreams in compromise.

Life tests our mettle—our esse: what we are—

We stand in graves while reaching for a star.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.