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Poem

A pawn for a pawn, a crown to crown,
whom is Master of this Lodge in town,
this I enquire while preparing the pyre for you to retire,
my meddlesome mobility unabated, indicative of a congenital nobility,
configured to coral this clambering caravan of corrupted cargo,
like a sqaulid sailing ship mired by a dragging anchor
I will be the insensitive squall that screams and squashes
your spirit's resolve for immortality to which you aspire,
by necessity, your pirate army pines to encroach this backline of mine,
alert for advantage like hyenas on high ground,
but when the men turn round with countenances of lost children,
then the lead you must take and oasis forgo,

A final engagement cautiously commenced upon the carnage 
of this conflict's first casualties, terrific testament of mortality,
gross scenes torn pale and asunder by torchlights,
unremitting images of the half dead bleeding,
their moans bare and last moments barren
like old channels of lost rivers,
raging exhaustion spurned and supplanted with a spontaneous summons
of a brazen belief that my foe is more weakened, warbled and wasted than we,
here in the middle, setting the endgame circuitously,
a defense is devised to deter like a pinching pillory,
my startegy is instinct, my ferocity diverse -

J.A.B.  - Final Part -

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