Evening 3/28/2000

He followed a smoke plume,
like floating pillows,
skyward billows the agony
of defeated armies.
Up to the sun.
He loves the scent of battle
and knows no fear.
But the clang of iron bells,
tells of blood in the spring,
tolling the crusade.
Shouting trees mock every step.
A place, they say,
away from chaos, where
flowery breezes kiss
away worry,
to escape and mourn
the death of yesterday,
heal the wounds
lower the sagging curtains
to the stage floor.
Ahead, the path bends
backwards,
a fragmented horizon steals his eyes.
He marches blind,
the knot of hope coiled in his stomach.
Cancerous yearning drives the herd forth.
In vain, they dream they are awake.
He knows the answer to the serpent's gaze,
and the battle trumpet sounds at dawn,
once again.