The Secret Warrior

No one notices.
You hide it well,
that heart of a warrior,
strong, even in the weariness

of battles that never end,
a twelve year war
that shows no signs of ceasing,
a daily bloodbath, far more

than a mere skirmish,
a war, waged unrelenting
against an enemy invisible,
implacable, insidious,

a killer of a thousand cuts.
Those who see you,
smiling in the streets,
spouting poetry, scripture,

art and hope,
who see you in your soft
flannel shirt and worn brown boat shoes,
your greying hair and gentle green eyes

do not see the muscles
of spirit that hide deftly beneath your skin.
They do not know your strength.
They do not see your armor,

An invisible God
who fights unfairly,
loving you through the wars,
unwilling to let you die,

unwilling to let you lose
despite your best efforts.

About this poem

The older I get, the more I realize how much of their pain people hide. This means they are fighting two battles. The battle of the pain. And the battle of the secrets.

The picture was taken in Rome.

Tom