I’m breathing in dust and spitting out mud, my face is a picture of all that I’ve done.
Hope is some air that cleans out my lungs, my throat is a tunnel where every word runs.
I’m getting stronger, little more each day, love is more lovely than it was yesterday.
The old man still mocks me and sometimes he stays, then stubbornly returns to his bed in the grave.
But his concerns need not apply, when surely the old man has already died!