The Calling
by P.L. Reed-Wallinger

You don’t ever see me cry,
I’m the steadfast one, never yielding to the fears.
I keep my emotions behind a mask—along with my tears.

You don’t hear the silent tirades,
Or know the unrelieved grief buried within.
For the cruelty, I can’t change—the impossible battles I can’t win.

You won’t question what you see,
Accepting the comfort of an impassive façade,
That keeps weaknesses trapped within—safe, behind a stoic guard.

You never look beyond the badge,
And realize, I'm every bit as vulnerable as you.
All you really want—is the helping hand that pulls you through.

You don’t dare acknowledge,
That I might not always be perfect, strong, and brave.
You don’t want to see the tears I weep—for the victims I can’t save.

You refuse to even imagine,
What it might cost me, when I stand and fight,
Knowing the measure of a good day—is going home to my family at night.

“Why, then,” you ask, “do you choose,
To walk a path that is forever lonely, and one apart,
Weighing every breath you draw—against the beating of your heart?”

How do I explain the passion,
That drives me back, day after trying day?
It colors not in black and white—but in endless shades of gray.

Who then, can fathom The Calling,
The destiny, and duty that make one whole?
Only my brothers and sisters—and those that share my soul.