When I peer down at my hands,
I don’t see weapons of war,
Not banners of a daring artist,
But the shaking hands of a coward,
The tittering claws of a mouse,
In the day I shiver,
I find myself unable to take a step,
Unwilling to advance myself,

The palpitations assault me daily,
I shrink from peering above the precipice,
To take the steps for betterment,
Hoping instead for an easy end,
I am a craven,
Regrettably so,
Not only because I’m afraid to improve,
But also because I won’t end it.

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