Crown

The crown had rested so perfectly on her head. Her shoulders high and proud. Hands covered in lace and holding in them hope. Her eyes have shown bright with gentle peace and abundant grace. There was no fear that she could fall. Slowly she could see the enemy come. But no fear entered her mind, surely those that held her protection would stand before her. Then one by one she watched them fall. Some ran, shocking her as she had trusted them with her very life. Others turned and joined her attackers. She could feel her hands and heart tremble as it broke her heart to see those she loved now only offer death. The last were simply struck down, their bloodied bodies telling the story of her destruction. Her once bright eyes now full of fear. Tears streaming down her face as all she could do was wait. Watching her beloved protectors fall before her. Each one hurt. Every hit was a hit to her own body and heart. She stood still with her shoulders high and crown high on her head. Her foes could not reach her but they broke her. Her laced covered hands now covered in blood. The blood of her loves. The ones she called friends. The ones she would have given up her own life for. She can’t stop the attacks. She can only watch. Her cries pierce the ears of all around her. No longer will she just stand. Her shoulders fall and her treasured crown hits the bloodied streets. Her trembling hands pick up a sword. She fights. She wasn’t meant to fight. She wasn’t meant to be this. Once she could only see peace and now all she sees is death and destruction. No longer is she the thing to protect but now she will protect.  Striking down her enemies to protect her cherished people.

She does not fear her fall. They underestimated her strength. They assumed her weak and without ability. They laughed at her and callously gave their judgments on her soul. Here she stands. Covered in bruises. Covered in blood. Taking strike after strike. She will not fall. She will not quit. Even as the voices of those that she most loves call her back and beg for mercy from their attackers; she refuses. Her voice will not be silenced and given to fear. Her love for those behind her forces her forward. She can’t be called away. Until the very end she will fight. It will cost her everything. She will lose almost everything. Her crown though will stay hers. They assume she doesn’t know the cost. She knows. She can see it. With each strike against her and with each hit she strikes her vision becomes clearer. Her hands become stronger. She can see the fear building in the eyes of those she fights. Even as she grows tired and weary, her confidence in her ability to keep her crown does not waver. She knows this battle is long. She knows the cost is high. She knows though that this that this is the way. Those that attacked made their choice and she has made hers. She will fight.

Her head wears a helmet for battle but the crown is hers. More beautiful than before when the crown sat perfectly on her head; shinning more brilliantly than any gold could. Her hands now calloused, bloodied, bruised, and covered in dirt. They hold more strength then ever believed. The delicate hands covered in lace were thought weak but no in fearful wonder her enemies wonder how they still hold her sword. Her eyes still shining bright but now they shine with protection and the secret knowing she will not lose. Her attackers had taken her moment of fear as the victory but their arrogance will cost them. Her give away her secrets. Her eyes shine with such promise of victory that each man she strikes cries out in fear long before her blade enters them. The restful joy is gone but she what she fights for. Now is the time for weary hope. More peace will come. But she knows all hope comes with a price. She will pay that price because she pays it for those that fell and those that stand behind her. With each strike she knows freedom will come closer. Her cries are not in fear or agony but that of a soldier that will not quit.

glass

Little Glass Girl.  

Little glass girl. Spun from the most delicate of pieces. Made strong through refining fires. Little glass girl. Wearing your chips and scratches like medals from the wars you have been through. Little glass girl. Meant to be treasure but thrown on the shelf and forgotten. Covered in dust and the ruins of forgotten memories. 

Little glass girl. 

Taken down from the shelf. Meant to reflect the light and shine but the cracks take the light. Taken down for play. A game you weren't built to play. Little glass girl. Bigger chips. Deeper cracks. Glass can't heal and it can't be fixed. It just exists, broken. On the verge of being shattered but you can't even fall apart.

 Little glass girl. 

What were you even created for? Not built for play. No longer whole enough to draw smiles of awe. Dreaming of the memory you created of when you mattered and held your own head high. Little glass girl. A lost soul. A misfits among the misfits. Your face frozen. Your tears can't slip out. Your mouth sealed shut and hiding your cries. This is how you were made. 

Little glass girl.

 Meant to be something beautiful. Meant to sit with the treasures. Meant to be. Your were meant to be something. What are you now? Little glass girl. Scratched, cracked, broken. Beauty dimmed by these marks. To you these marks meant something grand. In your trapped heart these made you shine even brighter. But you were meant to just shine. These marks cost you hope. These marks cost you your place of belonging. You can't cover them. Glass doesn't fix. Glass doesn't move. You live on the whim of others hands. You exist based on their thoughts. 

Little glass girl.

 Broken by the hands of careless owners. Allowed to be covered in dust by those that didn't even see you. Mocked for the cracks and breaks you didn't cause. A treasure that's lost its worth. Little glass girl. Spun from the most delicate pieces. Made strong through the refining fire. 

Little glass girl.

solider.

Where does the solider go? How does the one that fought the battle move forward? The flashes of the bombs that exploded are all his eyes can see. The cries of the wounded are all his ears can hear. What happens to the solider when the war has ended? For him the battles are not lessons he will be taught, for him those battles are his nightmares. 

The war ends and he is left standing there on that bloodied field, he knows the cries of victory that are ringing out in the streets so far away, but all he sees is the fear of the soldiers standing next to him and it mirrors his own. The trip home is full of long muddied roads. His path to the freedom he fought for now becomes his own fight with the darkness he sees even on the clearest days. 

Where does the broken solider belong?

 Home is no longer his sanctuary, home is now the place he doesn't fit. A place full of happiness that feels worse the bullets shot on the battlefield. Home is now a jagged edged cliff he walks. They look at this solider and praise his battle scars. They look at this solider and fear the pain he carries so they give him the words to say. Where does this solider belong?

 The battlefield that had become a broken home no longer exists. The home that had been his so long ago now more foreign than every battle he touched. 

Where does this lost wounded solider belong? 

The fellow soldiers he fought with, his people, the ones that understand the look in his eyes are gone. Scattered back to the edges they came from. A unit that had become so much more ripped apart by the end. Fighting had become their way. The taste of smoke and the way it burned their eyes was more natural than a day of clear air. The rippling sound through the air of bullets and weapons striking had become the lullaby to which they fell asleep. The place of destruction had become their home that tied them all together. Now it has ended and the people far removed from those blood covered fields cheer and claim their victory but this solider stands with his hands covered in the invisible blood he has long since washed away. He stands haunted by the hurting eyes that longed for victory he couldn't deliver. The whispers of those that fell away and quit before the last battle follow him like his own shadow and make him doubt his own deepest truths.

 Where does this solider go?

 Trained to fight and willingly giving all he had. Now unfit to belong to this normal day and normal life. Perfection sought and perfection lost. Living among those that will never know him like those that fought alongside him. Day after day. Moment by moment. All he does is wonder. 

Where does this solider belong?

Shake.

Hands shaking like the alcoholic sitting in front of their demon longing to reach out and take just one drink. It would melt away the pain. It would ease just a moment of the thoughts that crash into my soul.

 My drink isn't in a glass or bottle. My drink lives in my head. Shot after shot swallowed. A mental game with myself. Trying to drink away those thoughts with the quick shot of spiritual maturity. My whiskey that burns my throat are the hallow prayers I know I won’t obey in the morning. My crutch is the stench of my holiness. I’d rather taste the burn of the night then wait for the sweetness that comes with the morning light. 

Proudly I proclaim my own self to free and how I know better. But in the dark of the night when my pride falls away and my weakness is exposed all my knowing is proven empty. Instead I shake again, wanting my drink, resisting moment to moment, fearful of the next fall.  I can’t control it. I can’t make the grief live on my time table. It attacks me at its own moment. In moments I can’t control. 

Waves of tears cascade down my already stained face. Pieces of anger attach to my eyes and blur everything I see. The battle between hopelessness and faith is constant. I can’t even write it down. It is my secret flask hidden in my coat. Buried deep into my heart. I can’t look at it though, not yet. I know when that flask is opened everything will crash. But I CAN’T do it. You sit next me. Watching me shake. Knowing my hand is itching for that glass. 

You sit next to me and hold my hand after I cave and I take the drink, failing again. You let me sob and trench your sleeves in tears. I can’t stop. The tears pour out harder and harder. Burning my face more than alcohol would burn my throat. You are silent, no words, and no noises, even your breath is so slight my ears cannot hear it but you are there.  You are there. Knowing the battle lines I walk are not easy. You just stay. 

I know you could take away the struggle. You could shatter the glass I hold. You could make my desire for the sweetness of truth the one I crave. I know you could bind my rebellious angry heart. I know you could move me, take me away from this place, but you aren't. You are sitting next to me requiring nothing from me.  I can’t look up. My head hangs in shame and I know I can’t wash this stench off me or walk away from my crutch. You just sit there. You hold my hand and stay silent. You fill my mind with peace. Reminding me that this is the only place I can feel peace. Showing me new grace. A grace that is unfamiliar and strange. This grace that lets me sit here and fall apart and not be put back together. The comfort is only in the uncomfortable place. 

Sitting here. Fighting. Silence filled with the unspoken and unknown words. Hands shaking.

Tears.

Tears make it real.

The pain reminds me how much I cared.

Hot tear stream down my face.

Blinded by the bright shining gold only to realize its fool’s gold I see.

Tears make my eyes clear.

Washing away the broken debris.

The masked beauty of this world hides the monsters lurking around.

The brilliance of this fool’s gold tricking my with its bold fake light.

Tears take away all the strength I had.

The take away every ounce of determination and leaves me with the peace of the end.

Crushing weight bears down on my shoulders, digging into my flesh.

Tears remove all the cover of pretense.

Taking my soul and putting it into my pillow.

Leaving traces of me behind.

All the pain and tears pouring out; washing away the fool’s gold out of my heart.