Gauntlets and Gloves

Sometimes the best ispiration comes from the acknowledgement that the emotion you feel at one point isn't always so clear cut; inspiration often comes from gray areas I suppose. This is one of those.

We use not our hard knuckles,
no we brandish our cold shoulders,
We love loud and fight quiet,
we live between hard places and frozen boulders.

The silence is a fog that freezes,
filling all unfilled spaces between us,
It is a fog that squeezes, pressing hearts in chests,
no one wants a big fuss.

We are not shouters, no theatrics,
no, ours is a subtle dispute,
A civil war, one of tense exchanges,
eyes on floor and feelings locked behind closed doors.

I have fought this battle many times in many places, with many casualties, many faces.
These are pot shots taken from behind cover, from friend to friend, son to mother,
These are the battles made for the scorned lover, the unborn brother promising undeserved first place on the once-yours first place pecking order.

This warfare has no weapons, no bullets nor belt buckles, we use not our hardened knuckles.
This warfare speaks softly in our ears, spoken with barely reserved passive aggression, the tension palpable yet the progressive transgressions built to a crescendo.

The crescendo breaks cover.

There is an embrace, a quick glance at a former enemies face, a hug perchance, a laying down of an upheld lance.

Our family is not one of shouters, there is no force behind these words, no power.
Ours is a family of love, we may lay down the gauntlet but we offer the glove,
In peace, in amends so we may go around softer bends.
We fend for eachother, we burn no bridges, we search for those broken fences to mend.

We may be at odds from time to time,
But what's mine is yours and yours is mine,
Our struggles, our wins, our turn to take out the bins,
Our saintly acts and our devilish sins

This is a house of quiet fights and louder love,
We throw down the gauntlets to make room for a hug.