Inside the attic are the remains of victory.
Trophies and reminders of battles won.
They are in tatters. Rot has set in.
For victories are as fleeting as defeat.
And so you sharpen your sword.
You burnish your shield.
You nurse your wounds and say your prayers.
You breathe deeply and re-enter the fray,
read to bleed another day,
wildly alive at the uncertainty ahead.
About this poem
Nothing worth having simply lasts. Not love. Not faith. Not relationships. not success. We maintain it, work at it, nourish it, fight for it.
That’s scary to me. Some days I wonder if I am up to the task. Somedays I am sure I am.
The picture was taken in my church’s attic.