I Hear the Drumming

Old-fashioned bluster

The kind that made good men wince and clutch their hearts like canes

Treading on wires, over fire

Though burned, black, beautiful seemed no consequence.

Doubtful for the victims,

A straight shot for the few who

Saw the world as it was

Unjust, ambivalent, apathetic with the notion that

These

Things

Happen

And the decisions are left to the victors, who

With old-fashioned bluster

Create their own spoils.

Tabula rasa

No fear for the fruits of their actions

Plant a seed of doubt and watch it blossom

Like strawberry bushes in a ripe April

Staining the ground with red.