You are always packed.
It is a habit from days where nothing was near
and home was a slurry of hotel rooms and roads,
from a time where nothing felt permanent.
There was always someplace to go,
always some place to leave, and
be rejected from.
You believed in forever,
in the fairy tale, that life was a story
where the hero always won,
and you were the hero.
But you were something else.
Frail and flawed and far from heroic,
when you broke, it was total and you were left to die
on the battlefield you never saw coming.
There were vultures in the sky and you could name them,
suddenly sure of their hungers.
Wounds sometimes fester.
Wounds sometimes heal.
And there is no telling what yours will do
as you lie waiting for healers.
You do not spend much time looking back.
The demons that almost slew you may be behind you
You do not know.
They have become irrelevant.
You have felt their swords
and suffered their loving lies
and survived, and survival is gift enough to be grateful.
The journey here has been long,
unexpected, more strange than you would have imagined,
given how common a soul is yours.
You know there are no fairy tales.
You know that you are no hero.
But, you are enough.
Your life is worth the effort it takes
each day. You know
you were made
for more than survival, and you are determined
to satisfy the Gods
that saved you,
not to flee,
but to journey.
About this poem.
Life’s an adventure.
I’ve almost died twice, physically. I almost died once emotionally and spiritually. And yet I am here. And life is good. Do I believe in a gracious God? Darn tooting. He spends a lot of time and energy saving me from myself.