Civil War.

I could fight these battles.
I could fight and fight,
with my fist against the wall
and my knuckles raw and broken;
I could cry myself to sleep
until I wake to find my answers,
pushing and pushing
until this civil war is over:
I could fight this with no other
walking close against my shoulder;
rain would pour and I would trudge
along the muddy way of war--
my heart could take each step with aching
and aim toward something,
or just sit and wait for the enemy to find me.
I could run away, my lungs on fire,
my side pierced with air that pains me
and sustains me.
I could hobble away toward the back of the line
and let another win it for me,
with my head buried in the sand and all the water
taking over;
I might recover.

I could fight, give in, and fight again
and brave some sort of Alone
as my demons parade and tuck themselves
beneath my skin, and I could loathe them
with a passion and analyze my mode of action
to defeat them: I could beat them
with my will and want to thrive but
I would live still beating daily,
my heart racing, my mind braking
and restarting in the patterns I resist--
that I accept-- that I resist--
that I accept-- that I. . . .

Circles:
I could take them,
or my vacillating choices:
I'd deal,
my pillows over my head,
and sleep, and hide
and even make attempts at Right
and kick myself for every Wrong--
yes, I could fight some sort of fights
here on my own--
but I would lose them.

Or I could walk with Someone,
fight with Someone: take the blows
and spar and start to gain some ground,
leaning on an Arm that walks this
wounded flesh so far from former battle
grounds that I will fight my wars
out in the open, more than hoping for
the courage not to wall up
or to bunker down.
"A lover, not a fighter,"
and yet fighting life-long wars,
the guns aimed; ready; fire!
as my bleary eyes blink open
every morning.
I could rush the walls, precariously,
and foolishly abandon any thought
to throw myself into the clash
that I've not chosen;
or, I could take the sword in hand,
my hands that tremble with its weight
and feel incapable of wielding it
and shield myself, afraid of the outcome;
afraid I'm not strong enough;
afraid I'm still sitting on the sidelines,
only dreaming that it's over,
and let another take it up with me,
no longer claiming my Civil War.

My war?
When did I take this persona,
claming sole responsibility?
I've been bracing myself against myself
for so long that I despise myself--
yet I can't run myself through,
and no one will do it for me:
Pressing on is my prerogative,
my ally; my burden. . .
to finish Best and finish well
is the better part of my dreams.

I could fight these battles,
or I could lean them on Another,
my crippled limbs shaking,
and draw my Strength from some release
of breath, and burden, and habitual instability;
letting go of fast reactions,
my claim to this, my want of this struggle
for fear of losing my identity in something New:
somehow finding comfort in knowing who I am
in the dark I took yet knew as Enemy.
If I'm not the Dark, or the Struggle With It--
all the things I've ever been--
then who am I?
The shadows curl up under me
and curiously dissipate beneath
my timid feet.
With this Help,
the Darkness runs from me, for
I am Light.
And it is strange.

My old is new and new is aged in ancient Power
that defines my battle grounds
and scores the lines that set me toward an End:
my hope, that one thing that hangs gleaming brighter
than the rest,
for which I cannot fight alone:
to obtain it, or to touch it; to feel my fingers slip around it
and grasp what I've been longing for in sunset
and horizon;
the face within the mirror--
I must surrender in the moment:
the glass shatters; the veil is torn,
my sleep jostled, thoughts turned over;
the agony of being reborn

where angels brush against the soul of man,
charged to lift him above the stones,
to keep his feet from stumbling;
to walk him out and guard him well.
In that broken, bloody place, I'll rise
and draw my Breath to walk out there,
but not alone:
I'll fight and rest, and share the weight
when tears frustrate and silence reigns and I sit
on my couch still tempted,
lying on my bed unmet by Promises my faith believes
when I still feel the dark betray me;
my body wrecked and mind still trying to loop,
replaying lies and fears--
sweet Love comes by with some sweet song
she whispers in my ear.

She contrasts everything I've been
and I feel pierced. . . aggravated. . .
and awakened
by this gift of One Who rouses me to fight
again--
to pull my shirt down over my head,
get out of bed,
and tell the day, "I'M HERE!"
I'll share my battle hand-in-hand,
and when I'm tired, be carried in--
to throw it down, to war again--
And in that wrest and rested state,
fall to my knees,
give in, and
win.


March 28, 2009