On the evening before I start my New Job, I find I can't really get to exicted about any of it, from the 5 a.m. cattle call, to the cold dark blustery commute, to the soul-sucking hours of paper processing.
Saddling up and headed toward the battlefields, I feel numb. Anticipating no glory, just the bitter burn out, boring its insidious way through my capacity to feel happy or feel content.
A funeral pyre of hopes and dreams wends its way past me, alight with a halo moldering of poems unwritten, songs unsung, voices too tired to carry on in pain or exaltation.
Pretty soon I get to watch hearts and bones break that are not my own. Floors bathed in blood and shit. The dead have it better than the livin'.
I'm just the messenger woman.
Don't kill the messenger woman.
Even if she don't got nothing good to say.
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1 comment:
Fortitude-- and send reports from the front!
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