There’s a certain type of patience
that leads you to your wits end.
It’s more than impatient I’ve become.
It’s tired,
worn,
grown thin
and feeling greatly depreciated
by a solemn single chance
of beginning again.
Simply to see the same circumstances
come to sight.
When certain creatures command your credentials,
demanding daily objects,
you’re unable to deliver.
There is no assurance - no cure for the kids cancer.
No guarantee the treacherous removal of the mass
won’t kill its host, or regrow rapidly.
So my patience fled,
