The crimson pooled around my
asphalt-planted hand, splayed,
a base to keep me from falling.
The crimson taste, drips, sprays,
leaked onto my tongue, swollen,
pained, half-bit-away and frayed.
Oh, Life hit me hard in the face,
and I’d be dead, for Heaven’s sake,
or Hell’s… both are God’s Grace.
But I’m not done, dead, or gone.
Just bloodied and broke, but I’ll
heal, grow, and ‘ever fight alone.
Life… you’re losing, begone.
© CGT, 2018.
You failed to count my off-hand,
clutching pen, my lance, my brand.
When I stand to fight, fight again,
you’ll scream at what I’m offering.