Conquistador



Even downpouring water can’t wash the sad away.

Whorls suck in souls with leaves and rush out to sea,

drown bitter tears, dilute them without trace.



No winding road: the polished stone

worn down with time, the lowest common denominator

a multiplier of pain, scrapes rock upon rock, bone on raw bone.



She’s not telling tales: bent over double, screaming sorrow.

Bellows of loneliness turn all away

to stave off contagion. The tourniquet’s her rage.



Loss begets loss, wounds ooze blood,

Flesh eats itself, no limits, no sand lines drawn.

No fault, of course, of yours - it’s in her head.



How could you help? You’re only human,

with shield and sword and courage sufficient

to save princesses and maids in castle towers,



bred with hair down to there,

so you can scale the walls of their desire.



And once you conquer, well - what then?