Epi Demos

This starts with
the defiant, mysterious enemy
laughing at knights with iron
helmets and armors, grabbing
their swords and guns
close to their hearts.

It stares right into their eyes, and
they flinch. It bombs their high
castles with a single breath, breaks
down bridges, crushes quarters,
burns up flags, grinds walls.
They escape to hide in tunnels,
basements, shelters, cathedrals,
churches, mosques, temples.
They run and migrate and cry for
help, then fall down powerless
at it's feet.

With pointy sharp nails,
it gouges eyes and rips skin.
With dry hands, it chokes.
It dissolves cells, drinks
up memory. When it roars,
they weep, and plead, and kneel.
On a land of blown lungs,
blood puddles, spilt intestines,
rotten limbs, it slowly and
triumphantly treads.

Then it stops abruptly,
to behold a thin, barefoot child
emerging from the debris, carrying
a violin on one shoulder,
or a painting brush
in a tender hand,
or a melody in the throat,
or a poem on the fingertips,
or a prayer within the eyes,

granting the defeated knights
one more moment of light.