Hanging Up My Pistols (Poetry)

A tactical retreat
no less, no more —
it’s time to give it up
retire, withdraw
and any who come looking —
knock my door —
will find a token shell case
on the floor.

All argument’s redundant
not worth the fight —
my worrying and fretting
half the sleepless night
when no one else is bothered —
selfishly ignore
the trouble all around them
pretend there’s no war.

I’m hanging up my pistols
turning in my gun
I’m burying the hatchet —
my revolution’s done
with nothing to believe in
everything is doubt —
I’m searching for a valley
a quiet way out.