Conscientious Objector

I am not there
where you say I stand.
I am not stationed at the front,
plotting someone’s brutal end,
gnashed teeth gritting rallying calls.

I am in a silent void,
falling into the softness of crude words spoken;
for I have blunted their harshness as I wish,
lulled the tumult – which had arisen
in protest to your invading poison.

I am not there
at your feet,
the acting-footstool on which you yearn to rest,
the bosom of your resentment.
That is not where I am, who I am.

I am at your right hand,
the place you have not turned to look to
for you trust it too much to respect it.
You may have forgotten
after all this time of conflict.
But I am not your nemesis,
a challenge to be crushed, defeated.

I am not fixing to take your place in this army.

I am not in any army.
I am your eternal kin, your reflection,
the one who shall share your old age.

I am your sister.

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