Whatever happened to you
to make those rocks so big
and your throwing arm so strong?
Is that war you fight without hope?
Your battlefield, perhaps a solitary
plain of imagined cannons,
is but a field of dandelions
ordinary and tufted with grass.
But perhaps, you pocketed
your glasses and see a different scene,
one you need to prevail
in a more challenging sport
where you feel placed in the outfield
away from the applause and a stage.
There is a sky, dear one, a view of blue hope.
There are new games for your whiplashed arms
so tired from that mêlée you created
These would engage your intellect
without razored eyes or
sharpened words.
There are other paths to lead you away
from this bleak and desolate place
you have created to protect yourself.
We are all vulnerable.
We are all but flesh.
Put down your sword and stone
and take my hand
It is warm and real
although calloused from my own stones.