When Zeal Decays
Like warriors, I adorn scars from battles,
The battles that left my soul pierced by atlatls.
Every scar's a story, or so they say,
But stories matter little when your zeal decays.
I buried my conviction and watered the grave,
As did Patroclus, I too adorned the mask of the brave.
But when twilight gathered and the truth came out,
I found myself rotting with demons of self-doubt.
I wear broken spearheads like rosary beads,
And wonder why I still suffer for all my deeds.
For I believed I served the world with a heart of gold,
Yet all I earned in return was a bed stiff and cold.
Every scar a map to a place I'd never go,
Yet toward those thoughts circle to and fro.
Caught in endless transit, like a needle lost in hay,
Unable to find the road so I pray that one day I find the way.
As I cry, Sting, ever courteous, tells me to stay strong,
Though some of the scars I bear are where its words belong.
Yet even ruined temples remember forgotten gods,
So I do good irrespective of applause.
Yet all I receive is blame, anger, and disdain,
For their comfort comes before acknowledgment of my pain.
Weak and pathetic maybe I am for I lost the battle
And let them puncture my soul with atlatl.
For I could've been ignorant, selfish and prude
But unfortunately I am not that crude
Instead I chose compassion, though it left me undone,
Bearing wounds of many, while mine heal none.
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