sometimes i am too pacified in peacetime,
and i shatter my supply for something to do.
i observe my manmade destruction-
beautiful enough to be artistic,
but not brutal enough to be significant.
although i tire of its monotony,
i adore it's manageable scale-
i can stop torturing myself when i bore of it.
then i remember the treacherous battle
where i bled and bruised
under a flimsy film of false contentment.
i remember i pleaded the sky to pull me up,
away from the ground that pushed me under.
i was saved by the sun and the clouds
which gave me a chance some others didn't receive.
therefore now, as i shatter my supply for something to do
i fear the universe perceives ingratitude
and believes i'd be better off in battle again.
