We want battles,
we want the fight,
someone else’s bloody face,
is our delight.

Once were warriors,
now we’re lambs,
dropped our swords,
for empty words.

With digital shield,
in silence we wield,
false identities — truth removed,
rights of passage, no longer proved.

We war with spouses,
build empty houses,
filling rooms to remind,
looped memories on rewind.

To shut down the mind,
we close doors to humankind,
encase our hearts in cellophane,
and choke inhaling our disdain.

Happily we purchase
our subscriptions to unhappiness,
clutching to the routines,
of our broken dreams.

And we complain about the sorrow;
to another heart we beg and borrow,
dragging them in the muck and mire,
under a false pretense of desire.

To break the cycles,
we must become disciples,
of the voice in the well,
wrapped in the shell,
of your flesh and bone.

The one — that stands alone.