Battle worn and battered and rusted somewhat;
the rain affects me more than it once did.
All the fools I believe surround me are themselves
surrounded and I am one of those in the circle around the fools
who surround me. Who knows who the joke is on.
I, like they do, have the right to my worth
only because I am a soul wielding breath,
like it’s my sword, thrusting in and out, exhausted,
triumphant, relentless, until it isn’t, until it stops.
And then what of my worth and right?
Does my breath prop up my worth?
Or, does the last long exhale draws me with it?
I leave with that breath and ride it like a dandelion seed head
blown on the wish of a child.