Gregory Cox Poet Epic

Mankind and Flowers 1

Like a vine slowly stretching as it grows, my fingers inched across the sticky wet 
soil. Every ounce of strength was required to bend my elbow so my hand could 
come close enough to help me raise my head. I focused on the pain from which I 
drew my strength. This was not difficult; for pain was pervasive, and yet reassuring 
for it told me I lived. I turned my head and rubbed my face against my filthy sleeve. I 
must open my matted eyes, and discover the fate of the millions of others. We must 
help one another if survival was to be an option. A red fog was my greeting. 
Blinking, and rubbing my eyes yet again, I strained to see past the glaring red 
curtain. 

Oh we had been glorious in our might, and right, striding into the fray. The vilified 
horde we were to meet, and vanquish, could not hope to stand against us, 
for “God” was with us. We were the ones on the side of all that was good. This was 
for sure, because our leaders had told us so, and yet, somewhere in the back of my 
mind, I had wondered where they were, these leaders, as we marched into battle. 
Should not they have been here to witness our glory? Was that not what we paid 
them for? I cringed at my questioning thoughts for surely they were cowardly and 
treasonous. 

The veiled red world defied my attempts at vision, and cold fear struck my heart. 
Blindness, was that my fate? My screams reverberated, as I called for help. Empty 
silence, silence, silence, was the response to my pleas. At my belt rested a canteen 
and the seeming hours passed while I struggled to pull it from its case. 

Small the success which defines our hope, and the canteen sliding into my hand was 
such a moment.. Each cell of my being screamed for but one drop of the elixir within, 
and I slowly worried the cap from its mouth. Focus you fool, I told myself, for to spill 
this treasure was to die, and for this I was not ready. A sip and the sponge that 
was my mouth sucked up the moisture. So dry not one drop reached my throat. 
Again fool, again, and this produced a trickle down the cobblestone tunnel of my 
throat. Was ever there a greater pleasure? Nay, such a thought was pure folly, for it 
was not moisture which flowed, but the liquid silver stream of life itself.

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