RSS Feeds

Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Old War

Old war came back last night.
There was no truce.
I fought the old battle.
My native inferiority and gentleness
fighting the unscrupulous,
the survivors,
the cold hearts of cold people.
I played blind-man’s bluff,
told lies,
promised cruelties
worse than any they could do,
but in the end,
I did nothing.
I could not harm,
I had no appetite for blood,
felt anger more like grief,
but I won.

Often I won
because I am an actor,
a pretender,
with nothing else but illusion,
artifice,
and the world backed off.
The cruel gave me respect,
the dishonest counted me
as one of their own.
Why then,
do they come back in dreams?
Do I want revenge?
Am I afraid?
Or does the war continue
in one form or another,
for one who weeps for creation gone wrong?

Comments are closed.