Samba*
a half-year of the sun doing the samba on your head
and you too would change your status to martyr
not the indestructible monster you thought you were
whipping battle plans from your back pocket like a
modern Hannibal fast-tracking his way through the fronts
carrying only a single vision of his future Cannae
epic cemented. if he'd known then if I'd known those dreams
were mere fledglings preludes maneuvers not formed nor polished enough
to even curl their fists against what takes you down in the end...
in those lost traditions I prepare my final directive nighttime
sleek amphibious landing - reconnaissance be damned -
breaching shorelines penetrating your silent hostile heavy heart
*This is an example of an actual Otis.