On the Verge

By Scott D. Zachary


Millions of spears come forth;
No one knows their arc, but me.
Sweet chariots rumble
Through my castle’s burnt gates.

Her scornful end lays in wait.
High-riding horsemen spear my children.
I sour at the sight, but wait;
My legions dash into oblivion.

This fort of mine crumbles from within
And without, and seemingly forever more.
Her blind soldiers flee at the sight
Of my wisely hidden bastions.

In the immortal words of Howard Dean, "Waaaaa, wabwa, wawa,wabwabwa!"