The neck that bends beneath a thousand days,
The shoulder bearing burdens none can see,
A molar's ache from words we did not say,
An ankle twisted on the path to free.
Are these the demons trailing from our past,
Or merely time's slow tax upon the frame?
The body, faithful ledger, holds steadfast
Each wound, each fall, each unacknowledged shame.
Or is it this: we've simply lost the art
Of joy unearned, of pleasure without price,
The lightness that once lived within the heart
Before we learned to sacrifice?
Perhaps the answer matters less than this:
Tonight, allow yourself one breath of bliss.