Norseman

I await a flash of light
Or an illusion from after today.
I sit in my black leather chair that was made in China
I dream of dueling dragons in the forest clearing, but
I brush my teeth to fight gingivitis.
I crave the mud, the disease of ignorance, the scar marking not survival but victory: All the glamour and pride of a primitive existence.

I imagine illiterate warriors vying for a place of standing: to be in charge.
But they will stoop way below the ground when total darkness comes.
Like minuscule mice under a giant’s shadow
Running from death.

You planted your seed across the many fields,
That are tan from gathering water and honey for their lord’s table.
You have gray hair. Your seeds are now half men
Growing fast while you are away fighting.
Warrior, you are like a cat calculating the best way to sit: Turning circles

Defiantly, you look death in the face and spat on the ground.
Must you leap into death if it cannot be overtaken?
You will die warrior. What will live on?

Scream your pagan chant into the wind.
No one hears you.
You are alone.
You do not know who gathered dust and formed the brain that is fast thinking of a way out (but is still too slow), a way to cheat death.
I can hear the misery behind your battle cry as you compose a symphony of swords and kill your enemy.