Weaving in and out between loving and hating my isolation,
My grip is gone off whatever I had left of concentration,
So many breezes swaying it from every single direction,
Yet my hair won't flit nor my kite lifts—what a contradiction.
The tail of a feline slithering around my throat,
Fur turns to scales, a reptilian hissing as I begin to choke,
A shift from love to hate, from grand adore to pure loathe.
The snake's tongue won't tell me which wrong path I chose.
Stone, water, lava, so many different routes to take,
Yet I wait until I begin to shake and then the journey I make,
But not on either or, neither nor, all closed doors—my fate?
Morosely brooding, I keep on shooting the target of my hate.
Arrow sticks into bone and a crack resounds in my ears.
What have I done—this war unwon drags on for years.
Soldier with no lieutenant; feeble, motherless infant—I fear.
A scribbled paper floats in the ruins of carnage, dotted with tears.
My boots emblazoned with rips as a stranger's hat tips.
I know not to respond or continue about finding my misplaced wits.
Air swarthy with death and pain and flesh, but at least someone's rich.
The stranger says to me, "It's not the bat's swing but the ball that it hits."
