A little syringe waits for me,
Such a little thing,
But it looms in my mind,
Menaces quietly from the cupboard,
Snickers at my headache,
Offers more queasy for my troubled gut,
Requires that I choose the hard path.
I know there is no malice in it,
But still it is my hands that must load it,
Find hope beyond dread,
And choose the hard path.
There are no promises here,
Only hanging on