Bravery? What is bravery?

Is it the soldier’s sword, cast in Ivory

earnestly striking the enemy’s chest, preserving safety?

Or the burdened slumberer, pulling the covers closer as they open their eyes, gravely facing the day?

In an ideal world, we could treasure both tails and heads:

both are reflected in equal measure

as copper twists and threads through turmoil’s wake.

All would do well to remember:

Pressure doth the hero make.