Posted by: Postordinandy | September 4, 2012

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The low growl again.

I am exhausted, and it seems I have one of four

choices:

Run,

fight,

hide

or

.

simply

.

stop.

.

.

Run.

But I’m so, so, tired.

My shoes are worn, my legs and brain ache,

I have been running for most of my life,

and,

frankly,

the dog is better at it.

.

Fight.

Spectators get injured,

and

so

do

I.

My weapons are blunt, my aim poor.

My enemy has been sharpening his teeth and

claws patiently.

He is well trained in the art of combat,

I thrash and flail my arms like a drowning man.

.

Hide.

My habitual tactic, Not one that works well.

I hide in noise, activity, numbness and denial.

I have managed to get myself completely lost,

Cut off from friends and family,

even myself,

Only to turn and see the beast grinning at my

heels.

.

Stop.

The final option, and one that many have chosen.

No return from here, a certain tempting peace.

Once considered, it can be attractive,

At once supremely selfless and selfish.

To let the dog win,

To remove the burden and the cost.

But knowing the ripples will remain long after I

am defeated,

is enough,

.

for now.

.

.

.

Instead, I shall muzzle the mutt,

Stroll with him at my heal,

Remind him that I am the master, not he,

And that if I can’t be rid of him,

I shall train him as I am able.

.

He will not be completely tamed,

Will always be a wild thing,

Ever unpredictable, ever dangerous.

But I will teach him to protect, not damage,

And we will run together,

Towards, no longer away.

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