Hoary Goal

Magenta demon scribble
vs. the rad blade of the bad
butter-tressed dude in pert
white, dirk dangling, a skywalker,

water-ripper, devil-tamer, ripples
arcing out from where brazen
abs erupt from the still
pool ringing the storied

tower; sans spells in green
wizard's garb, Nobody draws
a bead on the infernal cross-
hatched imp of posterity, blue

smoke rising from the roiling
moat, the sky dark with gnashing
wings, peat seeping red from
where the cleric lay gashed in two

awaiting resurrection by his
neglectful god who wields
no power here in these ruins;
Nobody's wrist aquiver

with fear, his arrow looses
prematurely into the scribbled
distance, the span of his days
measured out in wineskins

emptied and months'-old
rations shared with his dear friend
the cleric, who is still dead,
and Nobody begins to fear

that his friend will rise once more,
his two halves conjoining
into a single writhing mass; and
Nobody wishes he had stayed home,

had never gone to that tavern
where bards sang of hoards
in need of looting, had been content
with a good book, a fine pipe,

a simple stew by the fire.