I rewrote to my wants what I read in the one I heroically rose to defend, 
so waged war on an advancing and, in hindsight, unbeatable, merciful end.
Til its last strategic invasion, the direst knife-twist, of higher-knowing fate, 
but I spied maroon flags lowering our banner to half-mast a half-step too late, 
to spare welled petulant tears; wallowing in a fallen solidier’s crimson mire, 
over a candle vowed lit eternal, for our sole beacon reformed to my lone pyre,
as over-inflamed by the slow stale winds of ever still longer to bide time;
left me scorched, gunning for my tonic in gin and his spilled blood in wine.
Struck by feinting flicks of a bold arsonist, overflowing with coward’s fuel
as steel eyes, once were with blue-casting ardor, opened to fire, cold and cruel. 
Progress imploded by these imprinted salty arms of an as ever ace bombadier,
so sat ever next launching amateur retaliations of a waxing lyrical grenadier, 
My sight trained fixed on the steady target, though my span still fell far short,
as hands kept blasting in a revised mission even as sanity’s shred cried abort. 

Shell-shocked, I’ve dwelled over-long amid the rubble of a battle-torn dream, 
unsure of where now to rebuild, I can’t begin to muster the forces to scheme. 
Try to assess anew my homefield unskipped to re-find the beauty in the tired, 
admit down deep it was the novel and x-marked most mourned and desired. 
And as too defeat, whisper to the ether, aiming now to reach but celestial ears,
plead they chart more peaceful routes to my right, more felicitious spheres. 
Then beg a new moon to share a warrior’s secret as it too retreated from view,
how it continues its odyssey, recast time and again in shades of greyest blue. 
Though its dark side clear exposed, ever circles back to reflect the sun’s light;
after even the blackest of phases, rises to reclaim its glow of golden white.  
And I, too, wish for answers from every sage star shot across the night sky, 
though they had long crossed, and lovers, fore they could hear my call to reply,
to the ever last posted query only demoted in chant to “if” instead of “when”;
but now, if I must choose, I’d meet and hold onto my passed self roused again.