The Battle Never Ends

The battle never ends.
Not when you wake, somehow still alive
and afraid of the day,
not as the day continues,
each slogging step,
each thought slow and thick,
not then, or when
the day winds down
and each labored breath
wheezes from your chest
as you wait for sleep
that rarely comes for long.

The battle never ends,
not just to live.
Living is a habit, automatic,
a process in your brain that does not allow
for stopping.
No, the battle is to rise above surviving,
to matter,
to leave behind life and love
and grant the power to fly
to others,
to see them rise above the frey,
and hear their beautiful songs echo in your ears
as you prepare to fight again.

The battle never ends.

About this poem

Contrary to the tone of this poem, I am not in a somber mood. I am in grateful mood after visiting my father, who is failing. Each time I see him, there is less of him, physically, mentally and spirit wise.

At this stage, everything is hard for him. Simple things like eating or drinking are hard. Breathing is hard. Thinking is hard. Yet he persists. And we visit. Between us, almost every day.

And when he dies, we will be left. To rise, or fall, but like him, always to fight our own battles for ourselves, and the ones we love.

The picture was taken at the national cemetery at Quantico, Va.

Tom