To rise and fall on curving line of life,
is human destiny.
No angels we are, nor is earth heaven,
our path is thorny .
How long you lie, splintered and weakened
is anyone’s guess.
For intent on self, no passerby stops,
and a hand will lend;
Nor does someone from nearby house ,
take you in.
You can, must wait, for wind to blow,
and dry the blood.
Dress and heal wounds that
must hurt.
And ignite the flame that has died.
And when you stand on your legs
Be sure the hands will shield
the flame that is weak.
Made strong by each step;
every breath.
