Station 11

I heard the beckoning call

and rose from my indolent slumber.

Eyes that had long been medicated,

perceived in some new dimension.

I made to move

and was surprised at how I rose so quickly.

As I stood,

I could feel a weight come off me.

Pieces of my old skeleton

falling free.

 

I looked around

and realized,

I must be somewhere new.

I must be someone new.

 

Then I heard a sound

and looked down

and I could see

thousands of my victims

scrambling across the floor,

taking the dead pieces of my armor

and fashioning them into weapons.

 

Gleefully they surged towards me

and soon

I could feel the slicing pain

of a thousand tiny knives

taking me down.

Down.

Down.

 

So weak and vulnerable.

They came to kill their teacher.

They came to kill the bully.

They came,

singing a song of slaughter

and left with all the soft parts of me.

 

Awake before the Sun.

I rise again

and nothing falls.

Have I kept my armor?

Am I not a new thing,

in a new place?

 

I shake my head

and walk into the shower.

I dress

and drink my coffee

and drive to work.

I fashion weapons

from the discarded bones

of an ancient Earth,

and wonder,

if it, too

will wake.

 

HG – 2019

 

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