I am vanquished, yet all around the battle ensues. The sky is alight with turmoil, a tempestuous monster, unleashed and damning all in spiteful rage. Drums beat a resounding bravado, to wake the heavens, echoing upon the distant, brass stars. Shafts rain down, a barrage of argent darts, cursing the air with sharp, acid tongues and impaling the earth around me. Persistent wounds haunt my body, deep scars, decaying a once proud and patience sentinel who stood tall amongst his fellow guardians. One who was born out of conflict, pushed high and proud, heart beating in an inferno of raging energy, the violence of birth, the eruption of youth; thus I greeted the world, bold and strong.
But strength must know many weaknesses, for frailty and failing are but shadows cast from the power of might and vigour. Age ripens, conditioning and maturing, teaching composure whilst cooling a turbulent nature. So my armour was set by life’s unrelenting enemies and with it the buried flaws of crystallised tears.
Now, many dawns have smiled, many seasons whispered their musical overture, my symphony, an ageing melody played to the rhythm of time. Yet I stood firm as the sky darken laced with a thousand confrontations that cut through the air with fire and water until I fell without ceremony, without tears.
So, here I am forfeit to time’s crusade, free from battle, weary of conflict, at peace and liberty smiles on my memorial, this old, grey warrior laid to rest on a bed of sand.
If you see me, there, as the seasons march past, stop and read my epitaph. Close your eyes and see its cold inscription with your fingertips. Born from a womb of fire, raised high to kiss the heavens, prevailer of the four winds, shield against nature’s petulant children, who teased, taunted and mocked my bastion with cloudy indifference; then to fall, cast down, yielding my body to the artistic azure, a watery womb, to be shaped, to be moulded, to be reborn.
Copyright ©RMC June 2018