Stand True

You flinch
before the tight spin
of the red seams
direct the flying orb
not at your head,
as your amygdala
falsely alarmed
your jellied knees
buckling under pressure,
but instead directly
over the home
you hoped so dearly
to protect.
Now you retreat
to your underground lair,
war stick in hand.

Written after reading and discussing Seamus Heaney's poem in class, probably during baseball season. 


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