Lions of the wood
we salute you; three
toes, three woes, beset
by the powers that be
& their lion-killing man,
just a workaday yob
in impressive livery,
nothing but a ratcatcher
to me, Nobody, brother
to vermin & the forest
creepies but lacking the teeth
these others die for.
Beneath contempt, above
the ground. A rubied
mane is tousled in the gusts
of lawful prurience, not
brooking roar or yawp
or the meh of Nobody's
business but my own
road winding from yon
castle. Chaos is a bear trap,
a net baited with fairy
cakes, a fair maiden waving
from far-off towers. Even
this armored abider is weak
beneath the arm bits,
backs of knees exposed
just enough for dagger
to sink in, but Nobody
just peers from between
the manicured trees.
He is no hero, low
on charisma as he is,
so with hung head
he creeps deeper
into sycamores until
wails of his companions
recede beneath his own
snuffling sobs. Nobody
hopes against wisdom
that his friends might’ve
prevailed but even he
knows better, wonders
what the opposite
of Valhalla might be
as each step brings
him closer to where
cowards go to cower.
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