Master the Fox-Hole

You have the magic touch,
The silver tongue,
The gangrene thumb
For sowing the seed
Of discord and doubt.
You know too well.
Once it’s planted,
It smolders and spreads,
Tearing through the plains,
Ripping past and chasing fast at the heart, the undergrowth,
Or else rising in pretentious waves.
The signal smoke decree,
“It’s over now,
All your air are belong to me.”

You assume I know nothing
Of this self-seeking aggression,
The desire for control
And sympathetic repression.
You think I don’t know
What foundation means,
Holding life in your hands,
Swirling hope and watch it drain
Through your fingertips.
It means power, pride, and freedom,
All in one shaky,
Ever so shaky,
Pillar of Dreams.

I could never thrive in a world
That thrives on me.
What good would it do me
To be the mover, the shaker,
To wreak havoc and enmity,
To lay waste to civilizations,
To completely destroy foundations
And declare myself king
Of ground zero?
I would still be feeding on the rubble
Which brought me there

You call it weakness,
I say it’s courage.
Courage to know what battles
Are meant to fight.
Courage to know that through silence
Is where I find my truth.
Courage to stop,
And let everyone else find their own.
My strength invests in observation.
I observe and I know
Yours will all be over soon.