The Madness of God

It is a bloody thing, this battle you have fought,
a war half with yourself, half with ghost warriors
far more deadly than the world you can touch and see,
wraiths in the night, anonymous, hiding behind
the very shields you, in your frivolous grace
have given them.

You bear the scars of the night, ugly things
that leave others who know you best wondering
how you still stand, how you raise your sword
anew each day, what madness drives you
to love the ones who wield the knife so deftly.

For madness it is. God-given perhaps, but madness
nonetheless. A saner man would flee, or attack
with far more hatred than you seem capable of,
unleashing the weapons you hold, but do not use.

And so, you bleed. Day after day. Night after night,
and you heal. Day after day. Night after night,
unsure, moment to moment, which is which,
sure only that you are hopelessly weak,
impossibly strong, unable to surrender,
laughing at the madness of a God
who would choose you as his warrior.

About this poem

Come on, don’t you seriously wonder sometimes, “Why me”? For both the bad and the good stuff?

Tom