Devoid of any sense.
Numb, like a child left in winter's river.
Frozen over,
bloated with the osmosed fear of another unkind.
The bandaged handle of a sword called trust...
The edge has gone dull,
cracked and shattered
from hailing against a wall of truth.
And the truth was...
One cannot love what cannot feel.
One cannot save what refuses to see.
One cannot fight that which knows only to grow
to cycle
to infect.
One cannot...
and yet
my hands
still ringing from the clash of trust against truth
try again and again to wrap around the pommel.
They can no longer close around it...
the numb throbbing pulse makes my hand slide limply from my trusted blade.
I reach.
I grasp.
I clutch.
I beg.
My hand can no longer wield the blade.
The last weapon of my arsenal.
Paired with its sister faith, which I lost years ago.
I am naked against the slaughter.
The horrible truth.
I came,
I saw,
I denied,
I charged,
I failed.
Tried, and failed.
Only for the cancer to spread.
Only for the darkness to rise.
The armor no longer allowing love.
No longer begging faith.
No longer insisting on equality,
has carapaced over, forged by an impenetrable bitter.
The heart, leathery and harsh on my sleave,
Has no questions left.
No hypotheses, no hope, no strategy.
Only cruel reality,
What will you do now?
Take the first step behind your terrible quarry,
or admit defeat, pick up your neglected arms and find a new path...
How long
can I bash my self against walls?
How long,
until my dull blade snaps?
I gather my weary body,
my decimated soul,
my empty heart,
and my worn trust.
But I fear where to step.
Abandon.
For now you're alive... run.
Retreat to the hearth for now.
Battle the unbattleable another day.
Abandon.
There is no hope of victory.
That realization in itself.
Is sweet defeat.
Abandon.
The unthinkable reality
of love turned on kindness
like a venomous barbed blade.
To sink in.
To stick.
To poison.
To defeat with absolute ruin.
However, new weapons were forged,
unseen during the chaos.
a small shield, and a charm to keep one's hope alive
Irony, and nature.
Bear them close to your heart.
As you smile on this bitter loss.
The best revenge... is living well.
The riches of knowing yourself, can bring more than any mansion.
