The odor of The Slave

A story of a man that was two fold
He was blessed with energy,
As mighty as it be
He used it to conquer,
moulding scars like memory.

This impetus to leave ashes
As quick as a flame comes to a flint
He came to react
So cold
He burnt.

As a block of ice to tongue
People would stick
Because his energy was one of rich taste.
Why not lick the cold in the heat of a dessert?

He provided a spoon to all that dare eat.
Alluring as he may be to the degree of danger.
And as people eat from his hand like a manger.

He too was allured as those that stuck to his back.
His God
His ideal
Posted upon his forehead
A dragon with five heads that seemed intimidating.

A lost problem he failed to nurture when he was young.
The dragon lifts like Hercules
Sweeps like Casanova
And breathes as deep as the ocean.
Eyes darker than the thoughtless.
Scales of the willfully stubborn.

That was his energy
And he served.
He laid spoons for others
As his God fed him by the mouth.
He loved it.

Although not willfully,
He trembled saying no.
He could glimpse a flower on a bed behind his God.
As he peered, the dragon swayed.
Allowing brief vision.

A war of tug,
Less graceful than a Waterbender.

And as others observe and cling,
they felt his repel.
The odor of the lost.
The odor of the slave.

He knew the dragon had surpassed his ape hands and imagination.
The dragon was now all that he could see.

In awe, he gave himself to it.

And no one never stuck to him again.
So now we may question… If we allow one, why not allow ten?

As a memoir: he was a slave the the smell of the dragon. Hence he had the stench of the ill, reluctant and weak, despite his appeal. Staring into the eyes of a dragon wielded him with great powers that excite the impulsive human. As we now see now, he was not trained to hold those tools. To be worthy is not to question but his strength certainly is. May we all learn in his absence.



The soul of the Rose – John William Waterhouse, 1908

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