Poetry from Brianna Dawn.

dead soils; dry fuel

bending ourselves to a
breaking point, stretching
the joints of our brains to
rework our limits, our boundaries
redrawn to encompass everyone’s
and one’s own expectations
within them, how can we
push our progress to the end
when our fuel runs dry?
sometimes we mistake the paths
of destruction by claiming they are
bettering ourselves, even if they
have taken away the sky
below our feet, leaving us
stumbling along dead soil on
desolate grounds in defeat

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: better

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