Stubborn Love

So tired.
So unsure and tender,
fragile,
knowing your weakness,
aware of it,
perhaps too aware,
it prevents your boldness,
the cocksure blindness
you once possessed,
not so much a refusal to fail
as not caring,
as sense of invulnerability,
knowing you could be wounded,
but not realizing,
as you now know,
that you can die.

But here’s the thing,
the other side,
for you have died,
not a breath of love left in your soul,
empty,
a corpse in all but
the physical fact
that you breathe.
You have died,
and risen again,

stubborn,
hard headed,
refusing even in death,
to die, to give up
on love, on passion,
insistent that your book
will not be a tragedy,
no matter the wounds,
no matter the scars,
disfigureing as they may seem,
but a love story
sung by troubadours and children
late in the flickering night

About this poem

Heart wounds are the worst. Climbing back from heart wounds is like Resurrection. And most never rise.

Tom