I grow weary of the war
When there is no forward,
Only retreat and cowering;
When no matter my effort,
It does not meet your need;
No matter my cunning,
It does not meet your prowess;
And your greatest reward
Brings me sorrow
I grow weary of the war
When of no battle am I the victor;
When I bow to you always
Or be dismantled;
When all I fight is myself,
To conceal what ails me;
I grow weary of the hurt!
I grow weary of the pretense;
I am tired of you!
©2019 – V. A. Coote