I’m starting up another sleepless streak,

continuing this wild, untethered week.

At times it all seems well, at others bleak.

It’s like a slo-mo fall from off my peak.

Perhaps I should be grateful for commotion,

for life can ebb and crash much like the ocean.

For pain, there’s always pills or sometimes lotion.

It’s hard to not see old age as demotion.

When breathing gets oppressive

and the manic turns depressive,

life and death in their successive turns reveal

they are partners in the end,

one can admit or pretend,

whether you’re a holy cow or meathook veal.