Old Poem/New day: Long Past the Ring...

For decades I fought

with  punches wild and drunk

seeking out those who needed a Woman
  to stand up to them.

Fighters -- both real and imagined

whoever and whatever got in my way. 

Tightly sprung to combat from years of defensive posture

  potent
  long past the ring

No present oppressors -- except the stubborn and ancient

but, a default remains.

Ghosts reappear
and swinging at ghosts means swings fly through air with no hope of contact.

They cannot be fought with weapons or willpower.

As ever, any sort of victory requires insight, discipline & an honest estimation of your enemy.

There is no liberation in wildness alone.

Conversely, there is no prize for temerity either...

  born of necessity and chained unconsciously from habit.

I have not yet known the 

tired jubilation of a knock-out punch

and the fighter in me has grown weary of battle.

Acquiescence no longer feels like defeat,
 it is simply a learned adaptation.

I don't doubt the fierce fire that burns inside -

  I question its usefulness...

There is a constant conversation--
  determining which is more wise--
  peace or certitude.
Making altars to ghosts in hopes of appeasing them
  is more productive than any calculated blow.