Weapons of Choice

Today I am tired.
Again and again the lesson shows itself.
A court case in Minneapolis.
My depression, alive and well,
even if it is pushed back for another day.
The grass in my yard, green and voracious
after a week of rain.
My brakes are grinding.
Another trip to the shop.
The people who hate me, still do.
It never ends.

And that’s it.
The battles, at least the ones worth fighting,
never end.
There is no victory, only ebbs and flows,
and the willingness to fight.
There is no victory,
only the battle
or defeat.

Or perhaps there are.
Victories I mean.
But we are unwilling, unable
to persist, unwilling, unable
to wield our weapons of choice
long enough to change not minds,
but hearts.

About this poem.

For the record, there are victories. But they never come as easily as we think. As important as they are, laws, or meds or even religion, as much as I value them, are not the whole of the answer. Love and grace and kindness come from the heart, just as jealousy, fear and hate live in the heart. And the heart is a hard thing to change. It takes time.

But it happens.

If we fight for it.

Tom