One’s Fleeting Self

“This too shall pass,” and pass it shall, but what will be left of my wretched self?

These things come and they go. But I’m barely surviving the damage they’ve sown.

Each time that it ends there’s less of me left. And each time they come I’m weaker than before.

I’m barely a person. Much less myself.

I’ve weathered these storms time and time again. I’ve nothing to show but the damage they’ve doled.

“This too shall pass,” but I’m already passing. Like corroded stone at the mercy of the open sea. A fleeting presence lost to eternity.