Civil War (Poem)
Fiona Connor, Contributor.
For centuries, the legacy of war has been determined by the casualties it left behind.
But what the history books don’t teach you is that the most devastating crusade of all left only one.
For there is no great combat in history than the one you face within your own head.
Those pale, smooth temples conceal the war-zone which lies beneath.
The battles cries ring so loud, yet are unheard by those around you.
This war you face alone; you have no brothers in arms to aid you.
For they too are marching on their own solitary battlefields.
Waiting on the front line, with no weapons or defences.
Waiting for the other side to attack.
You have nought but your cries to signal help.
But as much as you yearn for aid, you equally avoid it.
Terrified of the embarrassment and social rejection.
Your mind is clasped within a civil war of your own design.
And you are firing from both sides.
To ask for help would be to betray one side, rescue the other.
The same to stay silent.
So what do you do?
Do you cower in the trenches and let the other side win?
Do you fight and kick and scream until the bloody end?
Do you surrender? Travelling across no mans land, white flag in hand, begging for mercy.
Or do you rise up and face your enemy head on?
Hoping to stand victorious, on the other side, wondering why you ever thought you could possibly lose.
