Mantra


Its gathering in the storm, and
I gather my weeds, stand facing it.
The force blows through my dreads and
each one lifts in fear,then lies back to cower
in this billowing. I stand weak kneed, small,
terrified to my core but
still standing. For lying, is no option for
the gladiator about to face certain death.
My only weapon is laughter, I throw back my head and
Peal. Even when the wind knocks my mirth back into my head,
I force it out again, make it louder, harder.
For I have no more tears in here.
I am dehydrated; all I have left is this empty echo of a laugh
that I repeat to the face of this storm just to say
‘I am still here’ though I quiver at the new onslaught
gathering for me.
I laugh and laugh till my teeth almost separate from my soul but
I keep on for I am afraid that if I stop, I will cry.
The billowing arms of this storm will beat me into submission
I have no strength; my weapon is feeble, futile in the face of this. However
I wave it with every conviction I can lie with
The storm is upon me, my eyes are shut
I may go down but I will be the warrior
Who dies, teeth bared.