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Battle Fatigue

God loves a trier,
But I tire of healing cerebral hamstrings,
Torn by leaping without training over hurdles
That simply were not there yesterday.

Of backs chewed through to fronts,
Remains spat in the sawdust with disgust
And downtrodden through the years
Into a pithy pile of organisational waste.

Of promises that never saw the light of day,
Of honoured guests who outstayed their welcome upon their invited arrival,
Of great oak trees that were grafted on the graft of
Another lowly acorn's shoot,
Of spine-blunted daggers druelling with the blood of comrades,
Whilst they themselves feast on the sinewy shavings,
Of lost ambitions,
Spanish moss draped in avenues leading to nowhere,
Of paper and pens and boxes to fill,
Of statistical accusations,
Of schemes,
Of pretty girls, words, rooms, hours to kill,
Of breeding germs feeding on failing thoughts,
Of careers perused on the crest of a doubt,
Of axes unground and festering dreams,
Of wishing to change yet remaining the same,
Of breaking down bridges when boats are alight,
Of caressing the hook while consuming the bait.

And all the same seeing no light in the past,
And all the while wishing I'd fail the test,
And all the time hoping I'll choose not to stick,
When one look at the cards shows I hold the wrong pack.