No luck of clovers here

If a man’s to charge me now

I don’t think that I could move

Blinded by the sun

The insects stand aloof

Counting blades of grass

No luck of clovers here

Each day’s a hangman’s pity

Each night’s a cross to bear

A brief look at mortality in the form of a side stitch.

An
intense
stabbing
pain,

reminding
me
how
lucky

I am
to
be
so lucky,

and
how
very
little

I’ve
done
with
this luck,

reminding
me
to
breathe

and
encouraged
by
the pain,

that
will
one day
subside

to be
someone’s
lucky
day.