Stratego

You walk down the hall.
Swaying your hips slightly, convincing yourself that you're the least bit attractive.
I know, that sounds bad.
You turn your head, your eyes are pinched as you look far into the distance.
The farther you look out, the more you see inside.
You barely see past the hallway wall.

Your sword is your shield.
No one dares oppose you for
they have seen the ruins of those who have,
but you just smile.
Flanked by the ever loyal nonthinkers and
A traitor.
Nice to meet you.

Clocks tick.
Copper turns green.
Leaves grow, crisp, and descend.
Red meets blue.
Yet, blue never meets red.
And you think it never will.
So did Trotsky.

But he plots in the dead of night, his eyes become sore and
his neck, wrung and tired as his
coup starts to grow arms,
legs, necks, feet, loyalty, betrayal.
So, when he comes around, you
don't even notice.
No.
Not yet.

Ah, but you will. Your regime
will fall, your trusted companions
along with it.
But for now, you are content to sway your hips
and pretend like your mask isn't totally transparent.

You wait.
No one buys your crap
anymore.
I'm not a follower.
Blue will meet red.
Soon.

It's so plain and clear

It's so plain and clear.

How she sits there, not wanting anyone to see.

How lonely, isolated.

How she protects herself with glass.

It is a glass door which she hides behind.

It's so plain and clear, it pains me.

Pains me how naive she is.

Pains me how brave she is.

It lights a fire in me, not so plain and clear.

Makes my face turn to fire, and my heart, to ice.

Suddenly I'm in a forest, the light green, robust flora illuminates my way. There are dew drops on the petals of the eucalyptus. They are sweet. As I tread over the lively vines on the forest floor, my feet become moist. Then I see a dear, astute and majestic. 

It bolts in the opposite direction, capering and bounding. 

My ear twitches and I hear a giggle of laughter, sweet and feminine.

The dear pivots on its hind leg to face me, its eyes squinted in a smile; its mouth, contorted in pain. 

I walk up to it.

I stand at that door loathing her.

Her innocence, passion, compassion escape me time and time again.

The dear starts to edge backward, away.

Good. Go.

But it stays, apprehensive.

A gleaming stone of agate catches my pupil

I pick it up and some of the red powder falls against my hand.

I chuck it at the dear.

The door shatters into pieces

Just as she was about to turn the handle.

She stares at me for a second, her mouth open in disbelief.

Nonetheless, she turns the handle and a butterfly with broad wings painted every divine color.

The red dust from the agate is still on my hands.