Mahogany Warrior

Night,

Your wretched sceptre stands as my gavel.

Trounced upon,

Rippling the fields of Shiloh.

My mind it battles the accosted times.

Irreverence places no step on the forest streams,

the creek, the rivers, the shallow pebbles,

nestled in the minnows nest of a muddled mind.

Too soon I go beyond wicked oak,

soaked are my thighs from rancid filth.

Its waters migrating from the mountains of madness,

wading through blackened soilent silt,

I move the cedars and elms.

To the edges I trace, the breadcrumb trail.

Born from mahogany warriors.

My thoughts are the Hunter,

I am the Hare.