a believing of the marrow
I feel it with every fibre of my being—
like the flesh that clings to the bone,
not knowing about the marrow within,
not knowing it is what keeps them alive —
That life means something—
Whatever meaning I choose to give it.
Not as a god or a guru,
but as someone trying,
as someone clinging to the bone,
believing in the marrow —
that sweet, supple softness.
And should the time come
when I find that the bone is hollow,
and that the marrow was a feeble thing to believe in
like pinning hope for a better tomorrow.
Well, it should only matter then
that I had something to cling to.
And I must decide that that is enough
to die with
to let life go.
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