The Sword

when love refuses to kneel

The Sword

I look back…

at the young man I was…

notebooks swollen
with himself…

every bruise
a cathedral…

every slight
a prophecy…

every wound
begging
for a witness.

Anger stood beside him then…

an eager companion…

its hand
already resting
on the hilt.

Time,
it turns out…
is no sedative.

It does not dull the blade…

it teaches
the hand
that carries it.

Age brings
a quieter knowing…

anger was never meant
to reign…

only to answer
when called.

Not a fire
to live inside…

but a flame
kept dry
against the rain.

Not every battle
deserves a sword…

not every insult
deserves your voice.

Spend your anger
like loose coin…

and when the debt
finally comes…

your pockets
will be empty.

So live…

Love
without measuring…

laugh
until memory
has something
worth keeping.

Find holiness
in ordinary mornings.

Hold your children
as though time
is already leaving…

kiss
the ones
who are still here.

Speak gently…
whenever gentleness
will do.

But keep
your anger.

Keep it clean…

keep it sharp…

keep it faithful.

Wear it
like a well-oiled sidearm…

beneath
a quiet heart.

Let mercy
have the first word…

let patience
outlast pride…

let wisdom
choose the hour.

And when it comes…

when silence
becomes surrender…

when injustice
mistakes kindness
for weakness…

when truth
calls
for a voice
that does not tremble…

draw.

Because righteous anger
is not
the enemy of love…

it is love…

refusing
to kneel.