I have walked through wars, fallen in a few,
Counted the shards of my armor, my shield too.
Yet I have not been tormented—this truth stands firm,
My difference with fate: a blade run through.
This platitude called acceptance, I reject outright,
In such existence, I remain,
While those I know lament in rue.
But does it matter? It doesn’t feel to.
I am, for I was, and my hand shall not be stilled,
Until I fight—until I swim against the tide.
I do not falter, nor do I rush to hide.
This indignation, where my life is tied,
Repeatedly told to fold, to curb my stride.
Yet I refuse—reject this melancholic view,
Mockery of existence, I deny.
I have always been a swell, a tremor unstill,
Never faltering—never abiding.
I have plucked these feathers from the wings of death—
Browns and greys, with hints of white interlaced.
I burn them at the altar of will, for I am a cade
That revels in the impossibility of an end.
What others call inevitable, to me merely fades—
In life, love, and all things otherwise.
For even eternal torment cannot reach me,
And sleep shall never claim my worth, my will.
Yet I will be gentle, watch blooms unfold,
Feel the sun scorch and soothe, rise and set.
Marvel at the delicate vastness of the universe,
Be amused—dove-eyed at truth, and yet...
I will wait for you, my love, my life,
At the edge of my beginning and my end.
I will toss pebbles into raging waves,
Defying their call, refusing to submit.
Then I will walk on, blending into what may be nothingness,
Or into the unknown—without regret.
