Analysis of The Calling

A heart beat, that marches like a soldiers feet. Upon a beaten path, ravaged by wrath.  Hands at the ready, bladed bodies a steady. Courteous but aware, all surroundings, everywhere.  

On the inside in control, on the outside a gentle stroll. Give them an inch and they’ll take it, don’t mistake it, but fake it, for the sake of it. That you aren’t scared. Only here to provide, safety, sanctity or shoulder to cry. But don’t bat an eye, as the kindest of kind can change right before you, and all will go awry.

Expected to reach out and touch, to comfort, and hold.  Be a human being, but maintain a standard, above all else.  Be bold. The teeter totter clock a ticking and tocking as we adjust what the public needs us to be. Listen. No talking.

Without a voice, we are merely bound by our actions. Fair enough but those who are watching may be lacking.  Filled instead by emotional packing.  The standard high as the pride of each of those that slip out of the comfort of their bed and into boots and ballistics to field another day.  Another call, a hope, a dream. I pray.

The media draws only noise to our mission. Like nails on a chalk board, tearing, and screaming.  In our ears, all the fear, all year.  And for what? All this hating. Berating. Trading. Ill fated. Raging. Touted in front of us as if we have a choice.  Or a voice. But we are all tied to strings. To things that are molded and change hands so many times that the original story is gone and facts are left behind.

Still. They wake up. And roll out. With someone or without.  This choice however is ours.  To answer the call and be in route.