I favor my swords already freed of stones, quick the better portion of sharp. I favor shedding my shields too soon. The played out poems and the days that bloom like wounds, the dry dust and the dirty water. All these notes of remission left scratching at the window. All these ideas about tomorrow driven over the edge. The fresh blade readied to part the sky, falling through this blunt color blue.
I guess there is a surrender left, overwhelmed by my own bitter nature. The epitaph written beneath this squandered skin. The gravitas of the deep descent. Just old enough to know what is left inside. Somehow still green, catching up with the rest of the class. Somehow broken beneath these impermeable layers of iron and earth. Always ready for the wrong war, the infighting left despite this enduring siege.
I have given up before, and I will give up again. I don't have the grit left for this sort of fight. The sullen battle of attrition, time running out as the ammo is the only thing saved. The flesh abdicates, leaving nothing to pace the floors and watch the walls. Grace only something you used to say before supper. Redemption only another flawed reboot. The sword stuck casting shadows, the sky painted windows blazing as the lights go down.