Fortress

Some hearts consider the scars
and draw all relationships 

through the damage. 

They hold each new start 

up to the old x-rays 

searching for familiar fractures 

measuring warmth 

in degrees of threat

They keep a running ledger

 of every hurt— 

and every kindness 

must pass through customs 

at the border of past pains 

Other hearts consider hope
and measure all things 

by its light.

They do not pretend 

the dark never happened 

they simply refuse 

to let it set the clocks

They wake and re-choose trust 

like a worn but faithful coat 

pulled on again in weather 

that might still turn 

Some trace every fracture,
mapping the world in fault lines,
believing safety lives
in anticipating the next break.

They become cartographers of danger,

fluent in the subtle science of exits—

the way a voice thins before leaving,

the tremor in a suddenly careful sentence.

Others lift their eyes
to whatever light remains,
trusting that hope,
even when thin as a thread,
can bear more weight
than memory's chains.

They plant small, stubborn rituals 

in the soil of ordinary days— 

a message sent first 

a door left slightly open— 

choosing to be wrong about people 

because being right about leaving 

costs too much to pay 

Both are telling the truth
as they understand it.
Both are trying to survive
what came before.

One lives in the past 

with a hand on the thermostat 

constantly adjusting the present 

to match old winters 

The other lets history 

become a weathered map— 

important to keep 

but not the only way 

to imagine the road ahead 

One is building a future
The other is building a fortress.

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 24, 2026