war trenches

Sometimes, I lie in trenches.

Not camouflaged, nor armed with
death and hurt and sting. Not with
a gun, nor fire, nor war.
Not a battle waged by blood and lines,
where if I cross, I die.

But sometimes, I lie in trenches.

I hide from open fire.
I resurrect old barricades.

I fight with sweat and tears and
strength, this battle made by living;
where if I peak, too soon, I'm down.
Cold and dry, and scattered.

And in these trenches, I shape and
grow, where fire cannot kill me
but heat and pressure try.
a gasket blown, then screams and cries,
I know I'm buried just where I can
fight the fight and beat the beatings.

Because sometimes, I lie trenches.

Where I can't see, can't hear, can't
taste, can't smell.

Where I hurt, and cry, and mourn, and weep,
and punch, regret, hope, wish, and love.
Where being in trenches means
caught in deep places.

But I stay alive. and I win the war.