A Place to Rest

His bruises fresh as summer air,

His bones as sore as hell.

The blood he sheds pools on the floor,

Though in a few days he'll be well.

His body mends, his bones will set,

And time will smooth his scars.

Until another war comes o'er the hills,

And his flesh once more is marred.

To grow, to learn, to be more than he,

Is the goal of battles fought.

Though, when the final foe is slain,

He's no closer to what he sought.

Another fight, another win,

Another scar to boast.

Another day, another week,

In the home he loves the most.

The place he grew, and learned, and healed,

The place he saw his flaws.

The place he wished and dreamed, and hoped,

He might scratch away his claws.

Though scratch away, as a mad man may,

They just refused to wear.

The claws instead would tear and rend,

Until the walls were all scratched bare.

And then he'd lay, in harsh dismay,

And lick his battered nails.

And outside his home, as the storm did blow,

Through the cracks the wind would wail.

And with those cries, his spirit died,

For he knew the sin he'd made.

As he'd left the home for every war,

Whilst they pleaded him to stay.

They'd watched, and cared, and held at bay,

These winds, and rain, and snow.

Though the stupid man had thought it all,

By his own strength he had grown.

So he cast away the sword and plate,

And grabbed a board and nail.

And he showed his love, for the place he was,

And swore to never fail.

And so he stayed, in the house's shade,

And his weapons lost their use.

But he had finally found, just what he sought,

In the beauty of his muse.

Author's Note

A rough little narrative. Haven't been writing poetry for quite some time, now. So, keep in mind that I am a little rusty. Haha.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

excellent piece....winning wars never really solves anything....but the wars of imagination fought on a blank page...those are wounds to be proud of...scars to shine in poetry left for others to read like names on a wall of casualties....

you capture the spirit of the uselessness of dying in wars, often for lame causes, but also how fighting alongside the muse...will always bring that freedom of thought, home.