I am a battlefield, Scoured and lifeless by countless, pointless rejection. Soldiers of right and wrong Clash on starry-eyed fronts of my sporadic expression. The havoc they impose Motivates a romanticism of construction. On one side the duty Is to forge and contain the perfect coalition Between that which is I And the impossible objective of perfection. She is the only being Who can bring me the euphoria of concession, The happiness of thought, And freedom from the eyes of disassociation. But the other army Forcefully reminds of accidental destruction. For she might bring nothing But darkness of morning and reasoned oblivion. During the scrimmaging I long for the day when she will bring extrication From battle which soldiers Embroil at the expense of my concentration. Both armies? commanders, Like A. Nevsky or Blucher with Acre?s persuasion, Barely hold ground through fog. Front lines between right and wrong are in immersion. Battle has not been won. Neither side is conscious of the true situation. For as men die with heart, No man sees one army as both in combination. In circles they travel, Never edified of horrid extermination. As they destroy themselves I still do not know what they are fighting for.