heel
the kiss of the womb lay lightly
upon my forehead and limber muscular frame
but bound tightly to a blade the bold tendons
that give spring to life and limb
the lost kingdom of the gods was that womb
and in its old Messianic script drafted
like variegated tattoos upon
my outcome were the half truths
that tell of my skill and bravery and my singular weakness
for every hero has one that is his or her untimely downfall
that is written on the walls of genesis
and in the heraldic structures of classicism
with its simple tableau of emotions
and formulaic patterns
fundamental one presumes to the likes of all being
who am i
am i real or just an ingenious invention
to involve and implicate in glories
the nobler local tribes
what am i
a mercenary killer
the force of destiny
or an exile from the community of the wholesome
but requisite to fulfill its dubious expedience
the hand that guides the silver arc of death
the carrion that feed upon its irate carcass
when am i
am i within you now
maybe as a beam that broaches reams of cloud
or am i a vagrant on the dusty paths of history
a reminder of what a culture was and how far its come
in the snaking ragged quest for humanity