The Swing

To whom does a man wrestle with?
as he does with himself?
To whom does a man wrestle with?
On a calm swing under the willow tree,

The planks barely moving,
Its chains stiff as the feet that root them in place
On a plane completely disconnected
From the mind who wanders into the abyss

To whom does a man wrestle with?
Where contemplation is nothing but all
In a game of blacks and whites
On a plane completely disconnected
From the unmoving swing he’s in,
From the dying willow tree
From all corners of reality

Empathy to D3,
Vengeance to E6,
Love to F3,
And Grieve to F6
and a surge of all that matters

In a waltz oh so recurring
but always strange every time
the feet oblivious of muscle memory
The mind a stranger to a face-
it has met a million times

Love crushes blossoming fear,
And fear crushes blossoming love
Gambits and sacrifices,
Loss and growth,
In the form of forgotten lovers,
candles unblown
untimely funerals
pictures left under mattresses
the smiles which perished
and the rest of the mistakes
he’s made

The wrestle is deaf
From the tolling bells of peace
It bears no end,
It knows no ease