Hero
June 8, 2008The sound of glory resonates within
his inner being.
He basks in the moonshine of adulation.
A victory won
a medal granted.
Decorated upon a glass statue of himself
in the house of solitude.
The music fades.
Adulation turns into the symphony
of despair.
With each triumph a piece of himself shatters
into the twilight.
His peers hate him,
his family scourns him.
He repeatedly listens to the music of his glory.
Nothing else seems to exist.
The beat of the drums drives away the silence.
He wakes up weak and deprived.
The glass statue stares blankly.
Each day he loses strength and vigor.
Listening to the music of his glory.
He wakes up upon himself looking at a child,
with its peanut-brittle body.
Reaching out with its little hands.
The penumbra of light releases the darkness.
The old man gets up from his ethereal dream.
Moving his frail body,
drudging the piercing grass of death.
With a muster of strength,
he raises his sword and fells upon
the glass statue of medals.
It breaks, his glass face shatters.
He hears his voice upon a thousand faces
upon the thrashing of crystalline,
marching in cadence into the night of day.
