There is a thought

There is a thought-
that we -
you and I -
are satisfied with
                                      struggle,
resist,
perhaps,
the triumph.

This
view
points,
merely at what we've seen, but not accepted.
With
                                     hardened hearts,
we reenlist, know more of war than
want of peace.
            Prolonging battle, we are enlivened
                                        when
                                        wrought with
fear.

We vow resilience but
contend more
with absence of crisis, adrift
          at empty sea.
Our
voices ring out promises of
death
and our faces stoic
       opposing fate,
we paint our
land with
        war.
Ships at night,
         we search
but not
for safety.
No, some other cause charts our course.
Unyielding, we force still waters part, little gods, we're sure, defending
                                      dearly,
choice and chaos.
Under weight of wintry beryl,
we splash through waves of our own making
when all we'd have to do is
                                                   swim
to shore.
What unreasonable wrath has
chained us thus to
                 think
we thrive most honorably amidst the
               billows?
When,
spent,
will we give up our fight
against
                       these slanderous enemies within our
                        heads?
For, pulled out,
in
grace,
we flee the open air and
                feign
                     need of shelter, rejoice
                     not in freedom but in the
                               refuge of some hole we've dug to
                                                       hunker down in,
shocked by our quick evasion of the void.
                                                      The
bomb dropping
                   is the
                            truth.

We are the infidel; faithless.
                                     So,
     dissenting from deliverance,
                             we are prisoners to hate.

The Sunday Whirl