UNINTENTIONAL FIST


Any heavier a heart, and I would not be able to move;
Flesh turned to stone turned to steel enclosing a tear;
Decades wandering counter to my dreams and desires;
Phony stars; violent winds; deep, consuming darkness.

Life has been a war of attrition, and I have lost much ground;
Deafened long ago by the common mortars of tragedy;
Made mute from crying out in vain to a cold, mean world;
My eyes glazed over, unable to perceive the color of hope.

What good is night? Sleep but an unconscious, fleeting reprieve;
Tomorrow, at Revelry, under the red, grey, and blue,
I will stand, bent at the waist, not bowing but dying,
My marching orders gripped in my unintentional fist.

And onward I will trudge with broken sword and spirit,
Dragging my soul behind me over the rocky terrain;
I hate that I am forced to be a warrior;
There is no cause for laughter on a raging battlefield.

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