Why Bother Counting
veils loosely as the noose
around the symptoms of imbalance
that plague my fading youth.
My hands, callused with pointless work,
my mind blurred with blind pain.
Sorrows born from the pain of others,
feed the flickering flames of my now listing spirit.
If all could be beautiful,
or all could be lost,
why then do I insist
on counting every cost?