Artfully Cared For

Once, there were cannons in each of these windows.
Cannons and muskets perhaps, thick walls of defense
against whatever enemy might blow in
from the lake’s northern coast.

Watchmen stood on the wall.
At times alert. At times, no doubt, sleepy in the sun,
looking for sails on the horizon,
looking for friend or foe.

Walk around the old fort, and you are surprised
at how few broken pieces there are.
No scars in the stone from wars or battles.
It was, it would appear, a successful bastion.

But, you can never be sure until you read books.
Your own history has taught you this.
You look, after all, relatively unscarred
from battles won and lost, and that appearance

would be a lie.

Yours is a life of sighs. A museum,
no less than the old fort, to what was,
years of hard work making you fit for others,
artfully cared for after the wars were won and lost.

About this poem.

Inspired by a few nights of unhappy dreams. So many of us suffer our past. Or fight against it. The work of appearing normal is hard.

Tom