My life is like a stuffed rabbit:

Years of rubbing a magic wand,

Has made my stuffing fall out

And my days are worn thin

From trying to make things

Turn out right by persevering.

The reality is, they never do.

I play a game of make-believe,

Asking myself the question,

“What if this time is different?”

“What if, this time, it can happen?”

“Just maybe, I can be made real.”

I forget, for a moment, it takes two.

Someone else has to try.

But there’s the rub. No one does.

So I come back to being still.

Staring blankly ahead with

Non-seeing eyes, soul dead.

I am numb in my grief and

I find I can no longer try.

There is no answer for “why?”

Yu/stan/kema.