Having Made A Choice

Isn't there still some voice of reason
weathering the time past, oppressive with anger

impressed upon this grudge-holding obsession,
and stalking the same spot some remain for life?

How much is the waste worth those forgetting
time here is short enough as it is, isn't it

enough to be left behind counting minutes, days...
Those hours spend having proved nothing

when you have nothing left to show for it all,
save the hate you play like some game

of putrid hackysack, preening vain
in malevolent discourse intent to display

some legendary show of strength
because when words fail, there's always threats

and when threat fails, there's always force
even when force fails you can always collapse
the floor where you stand...

What separates from the rants of spoiled
middle-aged children or the stereotype
of territorial pissing is the choice
to move on.