Maybe no one’s listening 
when I ask the sky for a favor. Maybe
every win and every loss—every
stubborn, unopened door—
has been on my own hands. Can I hold that
truth longer than a day, through a restless
night? Will its roots gouge soft holes 
in what remains of this life? What strength
do I have to show—being one
who faces the stars and the sun and
forgives their silence,
finds hope in being wrong.