His one blue eye, a glacier.
His other is black, a censor.
One pierces & the other, latent, hidden.
Combined they're daunting as Armageddon.
I see myself a woman, just passed a child's age
gnawing off her lover's nipples
in a passionate yet well-tempered cage
before the Sleep comes in ripples.
But now his glacier is stormed with rabid horses.
in which all of their courses...
are pointed through his pupil at me.
I am not ready.
My gates have been breached.
His beasts of burden whinnied and screached.
Is one eye his truth and the other lies to me?
I am not ready.
The Sleep calls my subconscious, the sage
to offer retaliation, surrender, perhaps a treaty.
Though these options only serve me up in a rage.
I am not ready.
In my sheath, I must choose
not his sword, but my pen.
I am not ready to lose
nor even merely to go to war again.
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