What creates in us the urge to fight?
What deeper rationale lets
words wash over us a hundred times;
but snaps the very next,
rising to the bait and seeking… what?
Or just a pointless scrap?
Despite my inner work,
the deeper life I weave,
this futile urge remains,
compels me still.
Today I entered into what I knew
would only cause me grief.
I sought it out
is what I’m saying here.
To what excuse or hiding place
can I possibly escape
when these compulsions strike?
Nowhere but acceptance,
and the slow, exacting work
of building bridges back.


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