The morning was gold, a whisper of grace,
Promising change after night’s harsh embrace.
A storm had raged through the hours before,
Breaking, bending—demanding more.

Today, the sun glowed with quiet might,
A rhythm unsaid, a pulse in the light.
Hope hung heavy in the trembling air—
That moment when you’ve given all, laid bare.

But outcomes don’t care for the heart you pour,
They’re cold, indifferent—never keeping score.
No weight is given to effort or pain;
The result arrives, and leaves you plain.

And I—once more—I didn’t make it through.
It crushed me gently, as failures do.
I cried, I sulked, I screamed at the sky,
But even grief runs dry.

“What now?”—the whisper comes too soon.
No time to heal, no silver spoon.
Tired, dusty, with cracked resolve,
Yet again, I must evolve.

For when you’re your own last line of defense,
You rise not from choice, but from consequence.
There is no luxury in staying down—
Only the quiet act of another round.

So I wiped my tears with calloused hands,
Not knowing the shape of future plans.
Not sure where strength will next be found,
Only sure I must stand my ground.

How long? How far? How fierce the test?
Unanswered still—but I won’t rest.
For something deep—my voice, my spark—
Knows how to rise again from dark.

And so begins the climb once more,
Not from hope, but something more core.
No fanfare sung, no clean restart—
Just a battered will.
A beating heart.
And once again,
I start.