The First, his bones creak. The kick of his artillery jolts his body

And he moves with it, a jerky dance that goes unnoticed

As the air is filled with the sound of metal and collisions –

Something akin to the din of a train, one with no destination.

Despite the lack of a target, he is victorious.

Those bullets that struck flesh are enough to dye the world

And through the new red tint, somehow it goes unnoticed

That those untainted bullets could make

The earth a lovely necklace.

In the rejoicing for the First, he is overlooked. The Second

Moves slowly. Thumb stroking over the cold metal

That he has kept concealed within his breast his whole life.

It has been called his nervous habit,

His need to scrape his flesh over that blade.

Long ago the skin of his hands turned to gold, hidden beneath

The callouses formed by this nervous habit. The rhythmic scraping

Of metal flesh on metal matches the pace of his eyes

As he marvels.

And more so

As he readies to strike.