No longer the guardian.
No longer the hero.
Simply a soldier, a pawn in the battle,
unnoticed, fighting your own small battles,
your shield and skin and soul marked,
somehow still standing,
somehow able to wake in the new morning,
stand, and prepare for battle one more time.
There are no victories,
only the tide of war, the ebb and flow.
and a determination not to drown
in your own blood,
sure now, after a decade and more,
that you will not die of your wounds.
Even the broken
It is all a matter of how, or if
you choose to wield it.
About this poem
One of my strongest beliefs is that even broken, we have power to help and heal the world around us.
The picture was taken in Rome.