It's the weakness I exude

that helps expose the wound

for stitching.

It's a husband's instinct

to accept fatigue, fear,

and scratch the itching

to call on his wife.


Sometimes I'm well paralyzed.

An emotional fetus of a man

requesting a womb's safety.

Sometimes I'm entombed

in terror and tears,

error and fears

begging for a graverobber.


I've been in need of a hand

to hold me

half out of the quicksand.


My tear-blurred vision

has clamored

for clear direction

across the land.

And with one final ounce of being,

I'm tossing you a shoe string.

          Grab hold,

          so I know where I'm running.

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