The Survivor

 

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

a stately pleasure dome decree

where Aph the sacred rive ran

through caverns measureless to man

down to a sunless sea."
Samuel Taylor Coolridge

 

Its mostly desert now

all dried up

dried up
from the inside out

the hooves of the Golden Horde
are only an echo
over the dusty plains
lifeless arrows fallen
far short
of their marks
no longer whistle in the wind
and the Archer trembles
fearful he can
no longer
string the bow

He sits beside
a patch of damp sand
and weeps
tears dried on the cheek
sobs cracked
in a dry throat
eyes closed
that see no reflection
and only the dunes
flow
around him
shifting over
the crumbled walls

of failed vision
"All dried up
dried up

from the inside out"
he thinks
His hands sinking
into the moist sands
where once a well sprang.



So this is the garden now
This is the garden
where enchantment bloomed

This is the garden
where jasmine grew

And scented the evening air.

This is the garden
Where passion walked

And this is the pool

Where she disrobed

 

This is the dream

He dreamt each night

This is the strength

That strung the bow

This is the care

That feathered the arrows

This is the only home he knew

 

It's mostly desert Now

Dry as the taste of fear

Drier

Dried from the inside out.

How could this be

How could all this

All this promise

Wither in a lifetime

How could all this

All this unrealized hope

Die in the womb

 

Like a dry fig

Fallen on barren soil

Seeds never to break the leathery skin

Never to be held

In the lips of desire

Never to be food

For life again

 

How proudly

We marched out

Banners waving

Spirits high

A world to conquer

And conquer we did

Ruthless

And savage

In our glory

And where is that glory Now!

 

Dry as the bones

Of fallen heroes

Dry as the shell

Of a cicada's song

Dry from the inside out

 

And the burnished armor

And steel swords

Discarded

When they could not protect us

From hunger and thirst

Discarded

From the inside out

There is no one and nothing

To fight for now

All the comrades

Are dead or lost

Wandering

The trackless wastes

Of their own forgotten lives

 

So the Archer

Alone sings the song

When we came marching home at last

At last

When we came marching home at last

At last

When we came marching home

At lassst

There was no one

To greet him

No one to run

To the door

When he swung open the gate

No one to cover her face

No threshold to cross

No one to embrace

This is where

the dream ends

alone in the moonlight

sitting by a dry well

old wounds aching

in the cold air

This is how it ends

Life undone by delusions

An archer with a unstrung bow

and an empty quiver.