Poem: The Only Weapon Left

I have to tell you, I am tired.
I am one who hates conflict.
It all goes back to my childhood
(don’t most things)
but life has exacerbated it.

There is fear in it.
And increasingly, as I get over the fear,
anger at the senselessness of provocation,
that gamesmanship of who can make whom look worse
as if what we were
were not enough.

Age has taught me the senselessness
of a constant tearing down,
speeding the process of destruction as if we were in a hurry
to die.

There is a temptation to walk away.
I’ve done it before.
And as self protection, I have to tell you,
it works well.
But it is no escape.

I am tired. Emotions are hard enough for me.
It is wasted emotion, hate.
It is wasted emotion, fear.
Wasted emotion, anger.
And I am too old to waste what is left of me.

So I will not flee.
I will rest.
And go outside again,
armed with the only weapon I have left,


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