Of you, of me, of us

When all is left of you and me-but what was of us,
When all that’s left is us, maybe then?
Maybe then.

Egos bloom on the swift tide of hatred and hatred gives way to further tidal waves of breakage.
Evil cannot exist alone the same way the dark fills the empty space deserted by light.

Light and dark are bubbling lines we each draw ourselves and while the truth is somewhere lost between the heavens and the earth,
I feel there are things that serve more importance to us than the piercing arguments of “I am right, you are wrong”.
for to nibble at ourselves at the price of right and wrong, to hussle at the mere words of men would cost us a price much higher.

Trying times bring out the worst in men and shatter all light but trying times also bring out the best of hope. The choice is ours.

If you and I are busy picking ourselves apart, who will fight for us?
If you and I are busy burning down bridges,
who will hurt for us?
Will I? Will you?

I believe,strongly and wholly that there are things better left unuttered if such things sting and kill, at the price of unity.
There is no me here the same way there is no you. None greater than the other, none smaller.

I heed to no name,no body, no person that says you are not my own and I not of yours.
I heed to no politics,no frolic, no spirit that says you and I are to be exiled different ways.
I heed to no truth,no lie, no history that pens us different.
Because the convenience of time,
Of age,
Of right and wrong,
Is out of our hands.
Because the convenience and the stinging array of breakage will bear the wrath of our own demise.

In yellow lands of untowed history,
Upon streams of untethered folktales,
Why must we burn?
Why must we hate?

“Its easier said than done”, they tell me,
So I’ll echo it across until we can do it.
Because the dead don’t waver and the living must live
And while we’re at it, we might as well live well, live good, live proper, shake hands as we shake off grudges, smile as we throw down frowns and walk as we run down rifts.

We must leave the madness of men behind,
For what is it worth anyway?
Of me, of you, Of us, what is it worth?
Is the politics of madness worth it?

(Shallow and steep as it is, we are who we allow ourselves to be and I hope we allow ourselves to be anything but unkind, arrogant, conceited and imperious.)