the general runs his
fingers through the ripe
amber of dawn on the
way to battle.
his attention is
captured by an
escaping thrush.
there are no enemies
to the naked human
heart.
only fear
lying in siege
like a poison
fog.
what terrors
have been threatening
in the speechless
night?
bludgeons of
expectation.
cataclysms of
defeat.
barbarians trembling
with desire.
the hollow horn of
victory.
horrors
even centurions
can’t know.
what happens when you
realize there is
nothing to conquer?
fog evaporates in
sunlight &
dissipates in
wind.
he continues down the
path, along the
river to the sound of
drums.
the thunder inside his
head is gone,
his hair
nestles softly with the
sky
he has finally
freed himself
from destiny;
he grasps his fate
firmly in his own
hands.