Till It Bleeds

The grip is slipping, blood is slick,
Holding on, and feeling so sick,
I wish there was a better story,
But this one is not filled with glory.

I put my pants on, one leg at a time,
Trying to form lines that may rhyme,
But I walk wires, over a train wreck,
And my halo fell long ago to the deck.

So I stay here, waiting for the answer,
But nothing is said to this lonely dancer,
I will wait until the last one falls,
Or until the final bell sounds the call.

Stoic Poetry