Steel / words / 2011 / Brace

The Warrior sits upright
	With his sword belted
		Tightly.
		He brings his chest to bare.
		Something of a precious artifact.
The swinging Indian scout 
drops over his stout log
	A bit of a fog.
		Over the horizon there’s a
		Message from the cul-de-sac.
		
	
The Warrior.
	Grasps his handle.
	Darkened wisp of candle.
		He clings.
		Nightly.
		"Shouldn’t your majesty be.
		 Twisting a different message?"

The swinging Indian scout.
	Laughs wildly.  The others are just.
		Wrong.

The Warrior meditates on her Hello.