You see the world
through gray bitter lenses
always in retrograde,
carrying the nine of swords,
and a backpack
full of condemnation.
You sit idling,
wondering why you're never
getting anywhere -
but you refuse to drop the baggage,
won't unclench your white knuckled grip
from the wheel you let rust,
because rage
only feels holy
if you swallow it whole.
You were born soft,
but never allowed to be,
forced to clash,
screaming into armor,
baptized in the clang
of your parents' thunder
that only ever allowed silence
to respond.
And now?
Now you wait
for someone to draw first blood,
to cut into your lane,
to wear their hair wrong,
to set a boundary against your scarline,
so you can give yourself permission,
to finally swing
your swords of three-edge sorrow
at anything that dares to gently breathe.