we tell a
story
an illusion of control
a cold comfort
in mourning
lines drawn in sand
random; unplanned
rally the troops around
fighting to the death
for their story
til strangers
on familiar grounds
we used to call home
Inspired by the various border wars around the world and copying the syllable count from a previously published poem by Matthew Maitland, including the borrowing of the final stanza. The poem has since been made unavailable.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 