My armies are in full retreat:
the cannons cold,
boots worn down,
muskets jammed and rusted --
Well fought and ready for rest.
My men seek shelter deep,
deep enough that hands cannot reach,
and they shall stay there for, perhaps, ever.
I was always told "no,"
that money ran the world
and a passion for words will not be enough,
that I will fail...
So my army is in retreat,
tired of fighting a constant defense,
using our last resources to build a keep
to lock away every imaginative flutter of golden butterflies,
and hide away any stray flicker of a thoughtful flame.
The oak trees of my mind's forest have been cut down,
nothing but stumps and leaves
and the smell of industrial smoke
from the bark of my oaks.
This time next year,
I hope not to be completely dead inside
that, somehow, deep in the keep of my soul,
a willow will weep beautiful tears
for lost soldiers and fallen oaks.
Perhaps the keep will thrive,
fighting off the countless sieges
and housing pilgrim dreams.
Perhaps the conquerers will be kind,
offering mercy to the innocent
and a quick death to the ones who deny "no."
It breaks my heart to call retreat,
but a small, crumbling, wounded dream
is better than no dream at all.
"You can't make money with words, you need to stop while there's still time."