Man in Arms

Man in Arms

I am perfection.
I have tasted the sweet tang
of the nonchalant and bland ---
of the trippingly toxic nectar
of immortal hunger.
It is sweet
like overripe honeysuckles
strung over a vine to drain
of everything life has given it.
Like me --- strung on an
unending chain of expectations.
I am perfection.
I am law.
What scars have I to bear
of fights waged for courage
or blood lost in cowardice?
What mark have I lain upon
a humanity who deems me
perfect? ---
who puts all hopes on mine ---
who rests all lives into my
shaking arms
and lets them lie
like sleeping babes
in the mouth of the
Devil's own Hell.
What can my fingers grasp
that others have not grasped before?
What height can I reach ---
What mile can I run ---
What distance could I hurtle ---
to make myself free
of this perfection inflicted
upon me?
Not a scar to show ---
Not a drop of blood to bear ---
Not a cent of innocence lost
within the wars
and chaotic hunger
of brittle mortality.
What good is a mortal ---
A man ---
A God ---
Without the taste of fear?