Battle Fatigue

 
 
 
 
Honoring righteous anger.
Not mean little sprites,
ire-clad knights protecting me.
Cradling so fiercely.
“Oh, no, dear, never forgive, never forget.”
Torture is no way to say you’re sorry.
 
Love whispered my etheric name
in receding memory.
Told me tales.
Told me lies.
I told myself those stories,
whispers in the night
bereft of sleep.
I sang myself of soft surrender.
Of gentle fragrant days,
dappled radiant degrees,
lusty heat-soaked revelry.
Noise of speechless secrets.
Poignant, so intense.
Spiking anger
burns me through.
Each synapse.
Each myelin sheathe.
Blood, guts, lungs, heart.
Viral penetration consumes.
I am languid and torn.
Strength, potency, ardor laid low.
Intermittently I rally
to fight desiccating tears,
private lore,
my own field of battle.
 
No one steps forth for me,
to offer my surrender.
Battle weary,
I can not bear to  breathe.
The anger breathes for me.
Gently it wraps me in
caustic steam,
sings a battle song
urging me to take action
as it soothingly scrapes off
red, itchy scabs,
refreshes my wounds.
.
.
.
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