The Man,
The miniature,
Of the tree beneath which
He stood,
Big, brown, bony.
Reckless crusader from
The hills beyond
He waited for,
Hills as worn as him,
Hills as ancient as
The Tree,
Waiting to be perished,
Waiting to be gorged.
" The Destroyer!"
Eyes beneath the gnarled palm glared,
Looking above,
Beams blinding the gleam of the
Golden crusader above!
The sky so insipid
As are the lands below,
Parched like The Man's throat
Drowned in the sea of his heart.
"Another dry day,
Another broken field,
Another broken string of my rope,
Another broken will of mine! "
*
The Tree,
The Minister
Preaching dogmas
From The Emperor above,
Seated on a golden disc
Melting pots of revenge
And Pride!
*
Fractured figments
Of lives,
Lived and unlived
In the same day,
In the same breath.
He let off the rope,
The eschewed soul.
" Not today. " , he whispered
To Her,
He knew, never knew.
*
A tiny nudge on
His brown, concrete legs.
*
He built today
Yet another empty temple,
Pillars brown with
The deprived sands of his land.
A shrine
As green as their wombs,
Once fertile!
Image courtesy : http://www.mi40k.com/wp-content
