This is a companion to another poem, With-Out.

What is this war
we wage throughout ourselves
and with ourselves?

Loneliness isn’t a feeling;
it’s a presence.

What does it look like,
if we could peer inside,
see it raging?

Pain isn’t a burden;
it’s a blacksmith.

What do we believe,
show others we believe,
when we adhere to this war?

Dying isn’t a curse;
it’s a luxury.

What do the ashes form,
the form I take today,
in the wake of torrential flame?

Living isn’t a gift;
it’s an action.


2 thoughts on “With-In

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