Slipping.

It’s slipping.  It’s clearly slipping.
Can I use my health as an excuse?
Can I play around with reasons,
And hide behind the obtuse,
Phrases I give to others,
As I tiptoe through this phase.
When I pass through the other side,
Will I view this through a haze,
Of sleepless moments silent,
Of daytime moments rushed?
Will I see a heart held strong,
Or a woman crushed?