THE HELMSMEN ROSE

\by the way, the land ?”
cocked a brow \of our own separate shores, the moon was lit to see the
stacks of hay bare, all brawny with large pairs of eyes beneath cabbage green skin, two spit clouds hovered from their open mouth, making a cat-like call, then leaped into the sky in somersault, and back to their stooks they proceeded, smoothing their chins with their hands.

— the world might have cared but these men, they were chasers; for us they took up together, and uncharged by fear, raised their sword over their heads.

side by side the helmsmen, looking with eyes of pale ice, drawn swords with an eager desire.
flick- the swords’ fingers moved as the helmsmen stepped out into the ice-caught wind, and went down to their knees and stood still and ice-smacked.

The first helmsman fell in battle, a broadsword strike cut clean through his face and dug deep into his chest, the blood spurted out, as each helmsman stood silently in a pose of stone — then the second helmsman from the right hurried with a cold, light of steel, to strike and the echo of his leap echoed through the air to strike from the left, their opposing lines locked in an invisible tug-of-war.

Each his comrades sprang to his aid, eyes twinkling with humor and a fiery arrogance (we all played army, we all survived, we all became famous stacking our walls with marbles).
From above, a dove tore above the warring helmsmen, blending with the sun-lit green, dropping to earth with an almighty clap of its wings, and darted out of sight.

The helmsmen rose, but the warring lines had re-emerged and began to gather the best looking arrows and each hoped to strike first. The bird had never left, but time passed without a note (but now, it was gone even as time had passed before.

We are older now, the birds have flown through the house, gone to sleep). \)

The dove knew that its days were spent, that it had flitted with a golden bell, leaving behind an empty sound (The birds have grown old, but not much more, as there are fewer of us with thoughts to hatch out into a new stage of growth, which would bring in more winged predators).
But the dove did not know that the winged men had grown old, that their dreams had waned into simple memories.

:: 02.26.2021 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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