iv.

Call me a Fool

My mind feels as if it’s made of granite,

stubborn as the tree rooted in the park,

immovable as an unending pit

drilled into oblivion in the dark.

“Nothing could ever change me,” I declare

with the confidence of a triumphant child.

Not even strength or force could etch or ware

the resistance that the years have piled.

 

Not a quiet whisper or a loud shout

could wiggle into my head even one doubt.

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