The Stick

This lean piece of wood,
supporting a wrinkled mass of life
step after step in doubt,
as the hand engulfs help.
Every muscle questioning,
sustenance of its very own
each competing with the other
falling, helplessly, deeper.
A sound echoed in every move,
of brittle bones and wailing hums.
Whose fault afterall,
trying to endure beyond capacity?
A silent sleep is the only hope
for each breath of consciousness.