But There's Hope Tied To Every Mast? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Time is often-
dreamed as longer than time exists to be?
No -need to smell the rank-rose over to discern
the dying abominate bee. As with each new flower,
a wellspring stem seeds the souls of men again.
But then some tortuously linger on-
like hybrid tea roses, beset with rust and blackspot.
That's never illness-free of some disease or disorder-
the likes of bipolar, diabetes, lupus and such.
Likes of multiple sclerosis, muscular dystrophy and cancer?
But there's hope tied to every mast breath that lingers
no matter the fatigue, there's a willingness to do battle
that precedes all victories and losses, one of identity.
It's a tug of war, one we can't afford ever to lose.
It's a raft of overwhelming hope in the fiercest of storms
whatever the wreckage, indelibly, there'll be
something serenely calm and recognisable of me.