Oh my goodness,
it was like staring at a statue.
Glass, stone, marble, all of it.
Light beaming through,
then up close it was something
totally new. Cracks.
Cracks everywhere.
Shattered. Splintered. Damaged.
This beauty, this masterpiece,
slowly dying because
nobody ever stopped
at the sound of it
breaking down,
they simply admired, and gasped in crowds. Shouting
“look how tall it is now”
never once did they look
close enough to see
what was happening to this
noble work or art,
diamonds and gems
falling apart.
Perhaps the degradation and the disintegration was
her own fault.
Perhaps she had put herself
on a pedestal much too high
and now she could know longer keep
her balance.
Either way she was dying and she didn’t care why.
Sometimes the strong don’t survive because there’s no one
to help and hold the hands
of those who can do it all.
No one knows
that often times, the strong
don’t know how to be weak.
No one knows and it is not
their responsibility to prevent this fatality.
What kind of being does it take to realize the awful demise of a robust confident soul that
has a severe tendency
to quickly drown
in sorrow?
Before the warriors are aware
of their wounds, they are running short on time.
Something happens, or several things happen, or
something does not happen,
and we finally feel the cut.
As a soldier
there is a moment of defeat and then undeniable release
of not having to fight anymore.
All the standing and
the swinging of swords that has left us so very sore
is finally about to go on
not a minute more.
We bleed and buckle to our knees.
Depressively eager and savagely anxious for death.
No more fighting,
no more,
no more.
There’s freedom in dying for those who have lived fighting.
There is weeping.
There is aching and shaking, and hyperventilating.
So we sit with ourselves as we have always done, just us with us,
we are our only one.
We watch the blood run free
and somehow find peace in the certainty that there is
only so much blood
our bodies can hold and
it will all be over soon.
Mindless Peace 