Spoils of War

Wisps of mist waft over the battlefield
Where to?
Who cares? Questions have faded long ago,
along with the crying.
Righteousness lies in the mud, regally wafted-over
by wisps representing nothing.
Sure meant something once. Shored-up words
safely shelved away,
unclaimed and unlikely to be retrieved
by those under the mist
nor those traversing the results, treading lightly –
‘Let’s not talk about this anymore.’

The Epic of [redacted]

Uncannily unrepentant – with no spare glance at the underlying
the unnecessary needling of nightly unease
Forward! He’d told himself, forge on, and they will follow.
And so they do, their sunlight’s beam in the fog of suspicion
But the fog thickens. Thankless crowds, thorns on the hero’s path
An end in sight only in absolutes, resignation to the elements.
Resignation, then? A recurring answer, if one follows the relevant stories
Or double down, and lead down the path till damnation
while the fog thickens further? Similarly frequent.
Equally undesirable. And at every turn
the by-passes beckon: Why not both?
Why not neither? It’s enough now; no more.
One day, the fates fold their cards, the hero leaves
the story unfinished.