I have not yet failed you, friends! I had a very busy day today but I did manage to bang some words together. It’s about Keshena – she’ll tell this story herself in a much more straightforward way before too long. I realize it’s a little sassy to rhyme “love” with “prove,” but Shakespeare did it, and there’s a long history of people thumbing their noses at that particular slant rhyme, so I think that makes it okay. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.
Taste of blood on the wind,
the sound of drums.
The wave rolls back and leaves the beached remains.
Men reduced to little more than stains
we’ve just moments before the next wave comes.
She finds what’s left of him, minus his heart
the dead men always take the hearts away
and then when the sun rises the next day
the soldiers hack their friends’ corpses apart.
She knows at once that he’s too big to move.
There’s nothing left of him for them to steal.
She knows that this sacrament is not real.
In his god’s eyes, he’s nothing left to prove.
She knows that nothing so preserved can heal.
He’d call it pride, and not an act of love.