dust bidden and stronger for it
with arm muscles wide enough to carry
the coastal world upon untired shoulders,
an indefatigable grin lightly on the brow.
Yet be it that a swooping wasteland
came to knock the rubber right off her
rampaging, unlimited upon the full scope
of the soul. Broken. Sorely borrowed.
To become cowards in moments like these
is the real pity. To raise the chin once more
and begin again is no effort at all; there is
no chagrin in the epilogue of a victim.
A million minor ways to shift the passage
of events, and yet none to shift so the mind.