Maybe the sky’s a washed out gray and the stones you’ve been counting on get lost, the simple fact that you were born at all could make you act the fool’s part gladly when your finger bones lock up, the only sound around's the low moan your mouth makes, the only sight the cracked glass pane you never fixed, the frozen tract behind it—waste, just waste. Look how you’ve grown.
Look how you’ve learned to turn away despair. And though you can’t quite find the way you came, can’t quite retrace those steps, can’t quite say where it is you’re going, still it needs no name: you’ve learned to carry silence like a prayer so true it feeds you. No blame. No, no blame.