to K.
I
The one who devoured another’s
circles
of hell behind the glass of his eyes,
rushed headlong toward display lights —
a bold diver, seeking disguise.
The one never passed even the first ring.
Not one
demon claimed his skin.
And he —
confused —
began to tear at himself
from within.
II
The other passed ninety days through
a beast-snared trench.
Stung by a hundred snakes —
and not one
peasant
lied in that stinking stench,
where she walked in the circle below:
"That’s how revolution moves — or war.
That’s how a spear falls joyfully into flesh,
That’s how they march to death,
How they walk to the scaffold
With their heads held fresh!"
III
If you must judge —
then please, I ask —
be rough with her,
like a tribunal does.
Be fierce, be ruthless,
let every traitor
drink pain
from your mouth, thus.
And she was drawn —
like death is drawn
to barracks steeped in plague.
She never knew what she’d find there,
where dream-zygotes twitch and flake.
Only hell
laughed in her face,
and it was cruel as ever.
She walked with the look
of lice and sages,
where
a lesser one
would sever.
And she stepped on the final ring of hell.
Ave, victoria, ave, triumph!
And she laughed — madly —
like a seizure held
between teeth
that would not unclamp.
Yes —
The crown is yours now.
Take your rule, your throne!
You've endured hate,
Shame,
Roar —
Now feast, alone!
Ave! But now the board is bare.
No one left to declare checkmate.
On the final ring:
nihil.
And echo.
Your
Trophy.
Empty.
State.
30 June 2019