Tag Archive | battle

The fog is rolling in, the battle rages on


The fog is rolling in.

I sense before I see,

the clouded mist

that comes again –

coming again for me.

Wispy tendrils

whorl round my feet,

readying for war.

Creeping, crawling,

reaching, searching,

finding me once more.

I’ve naught but gossamer veil

to hide myself beneath,

I’ve no stronger shield,

no bullets, no bow –

I’ve no weapon to unsheath.

But lo, perhaps I do –

I’ve words at my command.

With parchment as my coffer

and quill within my hand,

an army lays in wait,

for me to take my stand.

Whispered words

become my battle cry,

they cover me like armor,

they give me wings to fly.

As the battle rages,

the fog is failing, falling –

raining down in pages,

scattered in defeat.

I lift my veil,

and watch

as the

vanquished fog


Crystal R. Cook

Paradoxical Madness – and the battle strengthens me





Paradoxical madness

I could do without.

Interminable battle,

victory unattainable.

Eternal conflict rages

betwixt prostration

and fortitude.

Languor triumphs,

vitiating valor,

though – conquest

is fleeting

as perseverance

reclaims reign.

And the struggle

makes me strong.

Paradoxical madness

I could do without.

Crystal R. Cook

Slaying Dragons


Empty promises,
fragments of dream,
pieces of me
lost, missing, stolen.
I no longer
yearn their
Damaged goods
tossed aside,
replaced with
new and shiny
things, filling
the voids they
left behind.
Loss becomes gain
with release of pain,
relinquished angst,
quells fears
once worn like armor.
Still, anxieties preach,
false prophets of doom,
a dragon hard to slay.
A day will come
its lies will cease,
and in that moment,
I will rest in peace.

Crystal R. Cook

Geez, melodramatic much?

I can be just a teeny melodramatic sometimes. Well, really only in the wee hours of the morning after I’ve tossed and turned all night. I am not one for drama. Those nights though, when the day has been rough and sleep refuses to visit, I take it out on the page. I am fairly certain if too many of my silent midnight ravings were to be set loose, I would quite possibly find myself locked securely away somewhere.

Thank goodness for the sanctuary and release of words . . . Usually, I find these bits of craziness tucked into my nightstand months after they were written, I generally have no idea what led me to write them. This one though, this was after a particularly rough IEP meeting, fighting the school, again, for the services my son required and deserved. I got them, but the battle wore me down. Everything was wearing me down.

I always feel better after I spill my lunacy upon a page, the therapeutic power of the pen is magical.

in my mind
are not
fit to be

of normalcy,
if there
is indeed
such a

into the
abyss of
what used
to be.

to the brim
with bile.

The bane
of simple
too much a
burden upon
battered and
shoulders that
have carried
more than
their share
of suffering
never meant
for them.

Bones crush,
hearts break,
spirits begin
to cry out
for mercy
that will
never come.

Their thirst will
never be
hunger will
never be
not even
when there
is nothing
left of me
to feed upon.

will cloak
me in
the fear
I no longer
have strength
to fight,
I no longer
care to fight.

Respite and
are what I
long for now.

No more
no more
no more

Leave me
to my misery
until the light
beckons me
to rise
and face
the battle
once again.

Crystal R Cook



Boots by Crystal R. Cook

I remember writing this the night my husband returned home from Iraq, it was his third and last homecoming from that faraway place . . . He’s since retired, the sight of those boots laying there was one of the most beautiful things I can remember seeing.

Dust from another world,
soles worn from wear,
the color of sand,
wrinkled and creased
from the miles
marched in,
fought in,
slept in.

Dappled with the
darkened stains
from fallen sweat
and silent tears.

On the floor
by the bedside
they lay,
weary from war.

Worn with pride
ready again for service,
but now they rest
beside the bed where
the soldier sleeps.

Safe, loved,
home with me.

When tomorrow comes
a little boy
will wear the boots,
clumsily making his
way around the house.

He doesn’t know
where those
boots have been,
he just knows
they are his daddy’s
and he is home
again . . .

Crystal R. Cook