Whispers from the Balcony

Some say

That war is a matter of

Mother nature, and that

Life is cyclical.

It is true that

I seem to fight the same old wars

That once had let go of me,

The court adjourned,

The jury pleased,

The judge half asleep.

And I keep falling into these gyres

Because I never really change.

It's always the same situation

Only with a different set of faces.

And it does seem that my

Passive state, the one I fall into

On any given day, is war.

Like hereditary madness

Or a love affair gone sour.

But I wouldn't sum all of life

Up that way.

There's 4 a.m. when

The world is still

And I am perfectly alone,

And at peace.

There's moments of beauty, rarely in a woman,

When I find true bliss.

There's driving in my car.

But the best of it

Is sharing and creating art.

Like birthing new life, really.

Thirty years from now

I will most likely die, and

I will most likely die unknown.

But I keep pushing that boulder 

Up that hill, because

In the midst of everything else,

Conflict, poverty, insanity, et cetera,

Writing chose me.


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