The Poet Soldier Pt.2

This would be a good day. The poet soldier awoke feeling refreshed and energized. Recriminations and regrets were washed away in silent sleeps' repose. Twenty-one new moons had travelled night's starry skies since first began his own travail. Battlefields littered the length and breadth of this land in the wake of his armies' resolve. An arduous campaign of skirmish, engagement and battle had kept of dust, of smoke, of blood, of sacrifice, of honor, of fate, of birth, of death, of just, of dawn of destiny, of course. Nevermore would he raise his sword against his brave brethren. Today would begin a reconciliation, a repatriation of disenfranchised citizenry. His final battle fought, his victory complete, his greatest challenges lay yet ahead. He faced them with the same determination that had secured this destination.



All issues of mortal men in balance have a tipping point. Freedom from fear being simply little left to lose, the hearts and hopes of so many left without, turn away from the status quo and toward a new tomorrow. 'Till once a body of men and women and children bend down to retrieve a stick, a stone, a club, a rock, to use to demand a better future. Bread and circuses had long distracted the better nature of these people. For fat and happy people fight for little more. But now the wine stored in oaken casks in cellars of the wealthy had turned to the vinegar of neglect and hoarding. The people of this land demanded better. They wished to drink the wine before it turned. They wished for bread enough before it became stale or moldy. They wished for something real beyond the fantasy of the circus.



Mercenaries bought of the merchants' purses had faced him often on the fields where battles had been fought. Now those very merchants and others of that ilk sought him out to kiss his hands and wash his feet. He would have none of this. For mouths that kissed and hands that washed would soon again become lips that sneered and fists that threatened. Forty-seven Winters had passed since last a man of promise came. Eight Summers of lies and low had brought this land to it's present dire straits. The coming Spring might once again see nature's bloom. The dictate of the Fall again gave possibility rise. All else eternal, Earth abides.



Tomorrow's promise borne of history's shame, the poet soldier faced a legacy of an uncertain more perfect union. Diversity with quality would be recognized. Only those of substance of service might serve. The tasks ahead near insurrmountable, focussed attention on matters of minutia might make the differentiation necessary to move beyond today's pretext. He thought upon all this as he awoke this morn feeling refreshed and energized. Today would be a good day.