My Writing


Heavy white-gray storm clouds gather 

over the barren battlefield.

An arm rises to point a finger,

an arrow aimed to fly and wound, 

to loosen the woven cloth that holds you together,

unraveling you thread by thread, as the warmth

flees from you in rivers. You wore clothing plain 

and colorless: now, it is stained with pale blue, 

droplets of black bruises, dotted like raindrops 

fallen from a place higher than the sky,

but lower than heaven.

Your tongue unspools, unlatches, and releases

a creature uncontrollable. With deliberate focus, 

you bite and snarl; before long,

your own hand becomes a weapon, as you point

this new javelin at someone new, someone 

wearing fresh, dry clothes,

unstained and unblotted, clean and perfect 

for the tainting.

From one to another, raindrops spread,

a small but growing flood, gluttonous,

as it devours its prey 

and swallows without chewing;

your weapons and armor weigh you down,

the water passing through your fingers.

How brave would it be, 

to unlatch the beaten breastplate,

to drop the worn gauntlet from each hand,

to sheath the pointed finger and

stand unprotected against the coming wave?

Could you helplessly hold your post,

and allow yourself to be dashed upon the rocks? 

How much courage

is enough to stand without armor, to abandon

the battlefield and see the enemy through new eyes:

ronin roaming the wilds long after the war has ended?

It would take more than what you have.

But all it takes is a moment, 

a breath of stillness 

and silence.

You are drowning today,

but one wave at a time,

you may reach the surface tomorrow.


Photo by Marko Blažević on Unsplash