The horn of war sounds,
The mirror: dim lights shine vacantly, a tight hole – a porthole for ridicule,
Claws rip at him, tear him to ribbons then leave him intact,
The war horses charge, the muskets are fired; the kings sit upon a coral reef of judgement,
Residing in the insides is a dark, black, grotesque ball of obstacle,
A pack of dogs await, the focus of the group: a brightly lit pedestal, but it doesn’t exist to comfort him, it exists to cement the idea that has already been applied, re applied then torn apart,
Recollection…
Sheep herded into a deserted hall for the mainstream to consume anything to break the monotony of existing in a reality which doesn’t give asylum - but tries to take it,
A boy, a sheep which doesn’t want to see the shears,
Yet he does, for acceptance,
Resumption…
The horses are nearly upon him, the horn has heard its last echo,
He starts upon the path through the eager dogs awaiting the feast that will surely be created once he has begun the martyr mission he is destined to depart on,
His main wish: to rip apart the pedestal on which he advances,
He reaches it, the sound of the stampede is all consuming,
The dogs lap it up like a cat on milk; death on life,
He looks down, beads of nerves sprout out of his fingers like plants – the type of which mothers adore, but no dog has ever gotten it’s mother such a thing,
Some of the beads land on something, the horn,
The stampede stops,
1 echo …
2 echo …
3 echo …
The battle resumes,
The stampede charges, renewed terror, the pedestal stands tall.
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