his skin is his fatigue
no need for woven camouflage
the jungles as quaint and known
as a well worn living room
its secret ways deftly etched upon his unsleeping eyes
leader, rebel, ordained ruler
hero, deity, thief
rescuer, reaper, ruthless
wounded yet does not bleed
so many lay shielding him
of their own or owned will
unblinkingly i stare
awaiting
something urging me to keep looking
there….
stealthily skulking off between the overgrown rushes…the unyielding reeds
so say the flickering shadows at the corner of my eyes
but
somehow unfitting
he lies too-still
all grossly revealing
that he is mortal in death.
intotheindigo 