Warrior Poet Wandering

“Inside us there is something that has no name,
that something is what we are.”
Jose Saramago

I’ve returned many a time,
To this quote,
Looking for the truth that seems self evident,
Searching for the truth that is anything but,
Distorted by a disquieting falsehood,
As Warrior Poet I proclaim,
Day after day,
The scars that have led me to here,
The many mistakes made now have come home,
Like chickens to roost,
Wondering as I am wandering,
Whether I could have done anything differently,
Pondering the scars that now fester far from view,
Hidden from sight,
The scars that reveal to I and I,
I,
Well earned though not deserved,
The internal ruptures of misfortune,
Insurmountable feelings of egregious living,
Supposed,
Distracted guide of my own surrender,
Tempered syllogisms of top-notch discovery,
Ripened pain,
And determined insecurity,
Professing an aggrandized knowledge of self,
Toiling in the shadows of the night,
Lanced insurrection of runaway thoughts,
Deepening the wounded pride and heart,
Of this man,
Warrior Poet,
Love’s expression resolute,
To rise above the fray,
Realizing anew the strength and conviction,
Of that something unknown,
Life affirmations and immoveable feast,
Internal,
A stipend clairvoyance,
Leading to infernal retribution,
For what and why unknown,
As I have tried to live,
Fruitfully in service to this gift,
That something without a name,
That something that comes to me,
Delivered from the ether in full flight,
Blazing a trail,
Personal pioneer,
Directly to my heart,
Perpetuated by my soul,
Misunderstood by this fractured mind,
Warrior Poet,
Wandering.

SDM

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