Trite.

Stones and footprints, photo by Rachel B. Baxter

It’s trite, sometimes,
what I write about,
and my fear is that my words
can’t stand on their own two legs
without an Instagram filter,
a middle school thesaurus makeover,
or cheap theatrics.
I am still the Valkyrie
of the words spoken in my home and in my mind,
but the outside world holds dangers
that will even threaten a being
with wings and a shield and a sword.
There is chaos beyond my front stoop
where words mean everything and nothing,
where the beats of your…