every generation implants itself in the next like some kind of time bomb and, then,
regenerates
all the old ways of loving and surviving
driving us without our even knowing
life is a war and if we fight and keep on fighting
- with resolute, inexhaustible stubbornness
in a never-ending slog through ditches and forests and marshes and body-strewn battlefields littered with regrets, our blind faith in the past continually charging at us, spears pointing right at our hearts, frozen or drowning sometimes in fear, agonized by loss -
we might win
there is an old, creaking door
locked and guarded by demons and howlers
we've been taught to stay away
we'd do anything not to open it
sign any treaty and drink any poison
the meek inherit everything
over and over and over