Times of Toil

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Choking on the fruit of my wave

I am reminded of where I’m at,

as I am delivered to what I am;

I need to get out of the ocean

because I am not seaworthy.

 

Retracing steps to nowhere

Thickened lines of my mistake-

the ocean aches, with each row-

a haunting sense my grit is true;

as I cannot drown in the ocean,

although I struggle, wading, or not,

it is not a pleasure to be exposed

despite that it’s to my own eyes

There is no pride in times of toil,

it is only wisdom in that humility

The epiphanies are beneath me.

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