Inherited you were
passed down from a different odyssey,  
remnants of his spirit still intact
like a torch passed down

the road ahead was obscure,
yet when the laces drew tight,  
resolve sealed itself.  
a map uncharted,  
with hope that each step upon the mat  
would unearth what lay buried within me

Into the fire I stepped.  
With each practice, iron struck iron,  
ore and **** scraped away,  
the furnace of dread and angst  
refining what lay beneath,  
driven by the promise,
Tempered by the fire, forging
until all that emerged, a precious metal, striven for.

A kaleidoscopic pursuit,  
with each turn, each step revealing  
patterns of strength and beauty within,  
colors I had never known.  
Each fracture urged me on
to twist, to endure,  
just to glimpse  
another shard of brilliance  
inside the breaking.

And when I hang you up,  
worn out  
but a testament,  
that strength is born  
where fabric tears.
The final mold of the man I became,  
a shaping vessel that held
not just ledger of victories and setbacks,  
but the story of one who endures.

All this war and yet, there is nothing I would rather be.

I have grown to appreciate,
            as a nonpartisan–
            a silent sommelier–
the subtle earthy notes of irony with which
my deflated ego scolds my hollow spine.

I know my own hypocrisy, my instability, my naivete.

I have been raised in the midst of myself–
I carved and nailed these philosophies together to make trellises
around which my elastic grapevine limbs have learned
to wrap and coil and hoist themselves toward the sun.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are distortions in these wooden lattices,
and there are seasons when the grapes grow sour
or the vines do not flower
at all,
but the crop is resilient and the wood does not break,
and there is enough sunshine here
in the summertime to sustain
and to yield something complexly beautiful because it has been weak,
and it has known the cold.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are plots of land far more fertile than this one,
foundational structures far sturdier and more symmetrical,
grapes far sweeter and more robust of flavor,
but there is no wine I would rather have flood my veins;
there is nothing I would rather be.

The weather seemed to match my emotional fizzle
It rained on from despondent grey sky
Not even mustering a proper storm, rather a drab constant drizzle
The sky was me and I was the sky, I couldn't be that guy,

Could I?
He who waxed on ‘bout woe
Yet about what had nothing to show
I remain, yet the rain moved on, nothing more than a by-the-by

Sigh after sigh, I felt myself slip
Deeper and deeper into my dip
Yearning for something to excite
Yet knowing not what came on as a fright

I am no longer the sky, rather the sea
In constant consequence movement, with no will of its own
Indeed, indeed, that guy is me
The one so drear, who must atone for crimes uncommitted, all alone

A prisoner of fate
I am now the ground
Nothing to soothe me but a soul made of slate
Now I must find a joy in this drear, to enjoy the ride, for are we not all hell-bound?