As Ever Like the Sun & Moon at War

8- ❂❂ -XI

 A figure, left behind to lie within

the ditch by Preacher with his parting words,

remains unsleeping where he landed down

as hours pass above and Luna falls

behind th'horizon up atop the ditch

to leave him there alone without a light,

to wallow there in failure and the dark

until above the Sky doth fade to grey

before the dawn, whereat for doth it seem

a first, he gazes on the twilit Sky,                10

devoid of sun and moon and sees himself

th'reflection of our Preacher's words to him,

for up above the canvas is unmark'd

with dispositions of celestial forms

that bicker for attention from the eyes

of those who live below upon the Earth

as Stranger and Assassin do as well

within his form, attempting make him whole

whilst disapproving of the other's half.

But now with twilit grey above his form                20

he gazes at the possibilities

as endless as the th'horizon's fleeing edge

whilst travelling to meet the ends of th'Earth.

He sees a life wherein he owns a farm

and hath a fam'ly—wife and children too.

Or one wherein he sails on the Sea,

defending cargo from the pirates' raids.

Or maybe joins a carnival and tames

exotic beasts t'amaze adoring crowds.

Perhaps becomes a doctor travelling                30

to cure the ill and ease the old their pains.

Or he could learn negotiating words

to end what tribal feuds are fought for naught.

Or come to wealth with work and share around

his coin with those less fortunate than he.

Or maybe end the trafficking of slaves

so ev'ry human being may be free.

There's much to do that not a single man

could possibly accomplish in his life,

but never should one think it is requir'd,                40

for there are others who exist to help

the areas another person lacks,

and others still who'll do their best t'regress

humanity by stepping on the backs

of those more generous and caring kind.

But as our Preacher said: it's time to learn

that reaching up to pull those people off

is not the same as stabbing at their heels,

for justice is the chance we give to them

t'remake themselves in more ideal forms,                50

whilst sin is ending what they could've been

before they have the chance to hear the truth

and let it sink beneath defensive minds—

with palisades they built to suit their needs

in times when they were weaker than they're now—

to have it shape their hearts and souls and selves

so they as well can join in holding up

society instead of clambering

to touch the Sky and sun and stars and moon

with hands belonging to our Mother Earth,                60

who nourishes our needs if only we

embrace her each tomorrow one by one

and strive to learn and grow by what they bring

each twilit morn and eve—before the dawn

and after dusk—when all the planet's calm

and makes it more the clear what it requires

from sand to silt to loam of ailing Earth,

from tide to storm to wave of starving Sea,

from blue to grey to black of warring Sky;

a planet so in need to just survive.                70

The figure stands as fuchsia paints the Sky

upon th'horizon, gazing down toward

the knife he still possesses in his hand,

so stain'd with blood as from a saintly form

that's faded red to white upon its steel,

and sheathes the gleaming blade to nevermore

obey the whims of fickle deities,

for life is his to hold and to fulfill

with any role he wishes for himself.

Perhaps a Hunter's what he will become                80

to suit this need within himself to give.

Perhaps he'll whittle for himself a bow

and string it with the finest horse's hair,

and fletch himself some arrows to be held

within the leather quiver that he'll sew.

He'll make his living hunting devil spawn

to keep his fellow humans free of harm

about the planet, past the Middle Sea,

beyond this island where he's liv'd his life

so mis'rably for longer than he should                90

have done, attach'd to land instead of mirth.

The devil Hunter walks the winding road

toward his current home—the polis slums.

Today he'll start upon this current dream

and make himself the tools that he will need.

Tomorrow will he tie the final end

he needs to knot before he leaves this place,

revealed t'him by th'white upon his blade.

And overmorrow—well, he dothn't know,

but maybe that's the point belabour'd here.                100