On an argument.

A child, an impudent child,
Mad at not getting my way,
Or a hurt,
Or I don’t know what.
In truth, my real offence evades me,
Spiralling, I’ve lost the thread
That was tethered to righteous indignation.
I can’t be sure it was ever tied.
I once had a right,
Now I can’t even remember.
I want to feel like I have a right to be me,
But do I?
Did I give that away in my vow
To be one with you?
My mind and heart know that this is already conferred,
So why do I take up arms?
Why insist on taking offence from one who
Unfailingly means me well?
But look at me, look at me,
Haven’t I been unselfish?
Haven’t I been putting you first?
Why don’t you do the same?
Was it all a rouse?
Was I quietly and piously manipulating?
I don’t think, or at least I hope earnestly, not,
And yet, how pure, clear and unsullied can I
Ever prove my motives to be?
I should give and expect nothing in return,
If it is unrequited, what is that to me?
You, do your duty son,
And remember your own wisdom appears
Much less virtuous from up here.
Remember me, remember in the midst,
Bring me there and let me in,
Stop wishing your destruction,
Let me be the strength and let me
Take the offence.
That’s the kind of rock I am.

28 January 2015