Anxious beating hearts and drums.
Hands twitch, brow furrows;
Sonatas and arias mask truths behind
Bleeding swords and sharpened wrists
fall soundlessly into my dreams.
Victory: Improbable and impossible.
Soul: Uncertain and unshaken.
Come hell or high water,
I will see this through.
Quitting the field just isn’t my style.
I’d rather die a thousand deaths
than watch you fall
that one last time.