some poetry

some poetry-why not.
ive changed the spacing on this a bazillion times and now i can't think about it anymore so im just leaving it as is.

Battle-scars

Clad for battle
she charged upon the luring night
adorned with weapons
determined to serve her victoriously.
A blade of boldness,
a dagger of desperation,
a rapier of resolve,
all so finely sharpened they
frightened even her.

And coerced by a will more powerful than
she, now decked with tools of a corrupted
craving, she began to descend,
one gym shoe at a time
the seemingly infinite
stacks of stairs leading
to the intended and
illustrious court
below.

Now compelled by a rushing
sense of insurgency
she thrust herself urgently
upon the game, attacking it
intensely, seeking
to conquer
its provoking jest, evoking
all the stamina she could
to prove to the eager spectators
simply that she would.

But caught up intensely
rushing and urging
the dexterous gym shoe clumsily
clashed with the shiny waxed floor;
the clickity-snap sound of her ankle echoed
accusingly against the vastness of the arena.
The confident limb cowardly collapsed
beneath the shattered façade of
her stalwart body, and
the majestic bounce of the big
black striped ball of orange
sheepishly faded into a rapid
and repetitive pitter-pattery tap
surrendering finally to
a morosely meek and silent roll
way off, escaping
all possibility of indictment.
Aching,
burning, swelling, wincing from
pain, the performance was
halted, as she fell
defeated.

And as she sits
age seventy-three,
the crowd evaded long ago,
plagued,
by the poignant
linger of the incessant and
incriminating aching and swelling that
devotedly pursues the culprit, trailing
behind quietly with suspicion, the
vehement warrior sits
rebuked, for needing to
prove so essentially that
she was legitimate.

And all through her life it has
served her well, the ever revisiting swell
and ache, to help contract her
pressing urge, and to
remind her to
just be.