Third place Storytelling Contest winner for poetry
Rhythmic steps on concrete matching the beat
of the music thrumming in my ears.
Maybe if I hear the same song enough
I will transform into its cadence?
Mornings always hold the most hope. Maybe
the wroth demon in my brain prefers
to sleep in. I wake up early enough
to have a few hours of soft relief
before the daily siege begins anew.
Muscles in motion and feet on the ground.
Target second to the movement.
How strange to be a war of one. Weapons
of words and emotions enflamed
The battle itself fuels the enemy
but how else is hope expected to win?
