Tai Chi Straight Sword Love



On your 1-2-3 steps I stumble
and fall between the lines.

Some cobwebs still cling
though as old as they are,
they catch only dust
and faded girls.

Memories of skeletons
show themselves in these holes.
I tire of the false dichotomy
of "acceptance"
and "rejection";
I wait. I pray
that those bones may grow flesh of their own again
and someday free themselves from me.

Made not of glass,
but neither am I strong and unchanging.
I must take care that this
too easily moulded clay
will be shaped by none but the Maker.

I see him proudly marching
within these ranks,
but the lines still do not welcome me.
Fall back; fall back.
The army has little use of skeleton girls.
Bone begets bone; she runs from the trap of one
to become the bones of another.
1-2-3 strikes along the arm; perhaps these black marks
can recall where memory has failed.
Must I be marked by the memory in order to
be free from the circumstance?

Bone begets bone; escape is the wait
for recursion. The bones return.
I have learned nothing,
but now to tear off skin and flesh,
the marks are harsh on my eyes.
And again I have returned.

I wait. I pray
that either dust takes over,
or His breath will breathe onto me new flesh.
The weight of armour would not then
be so hard, and strength will come then, too,
to leave that proudly marching soldier to his cause.