Let me write my way to courage….
The type of courage that lets a man stand up after being knocked down seven times,
that lets him throw one more punch, though his arms burn like lobsters dumped in scalding water;
that lets him say “I will not be beaten,” and mean it, even if he loses.
That lets him look up at the fading stars, the trees, black-needled in lamplight—
the sunset, and the crows with their shadowy flight;
and lets him see their beauty without fear of dying.
The type of courage that lets a man
love with a heart that’s been slain a thousand times;
that’s been struck by Cupid’s arrows till it broke
and sliced in two by the steely crescent of a smile,
torn asunder in the cataclysm of a lonely night
by blind eyes and curled lips.
How is it that he always rises?
Once more from the tar-pit of heartbreak,
like a humbled titan climbing up from Tartarus.
Maybe I’ll write my way to thin air, and hang there for a while.
The view is something else—
it’s always been; it’s just much clearer when the ground is gone.
Just over the edge of madness, you can see both halves of a sunset;
Feel life and death simultaneously. Now that’s courage.
When you taste your own gall, in its bitter sweetness,
you can’t help but admire the laughing crow.