ronin apokalypsis

there are worse things than being ronin.
exile from the smile and pleasure of the regent
whose very presence defines you, empowers you
such that the brittle kata of the lost warrior
remains only as a shadow, your heart beating
only out of habit. the pain draining you
until the leeches themselves choke on the dust
of a crushed, hushed heart. how long can it beat
when the disembowelment is fait accompli?
I only trust that God will judge with a kinder
disposition my sins, or I am so fucked.

but, I digress, I would express my emotions
with clarity and the charity of one who never lies
or walks away from an accident, even an enemy
deserves the quick kill or a pardon, but I am torn,
worn, scorned and borne, bound and soundless,
into the presence of my own demons, who delight
in the feast release in a single hapless incantation.
better the pen should have fallen from lifeless fingers
than I should face the mockery of my chains.
better I should find penance in all manner of sacrifice
than be cast into exile for the rest of my existence.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.