Hollow blocks of ivory
hang by the nerve inside my head.
The absence of blood
suggests a healing already completed.
Picking out the remains
feels like the death of things long dead.
Despite the loss of once-fixed pillars
I fail to feel defeated.
A shift of view reveals what lies
right at the back underneath red skin.
A tiny town of glowing white
circling a mastermind of strategy.
Their advance is monomaniacal
marching composed in a synchronized grin.
Filling up the empty trenches
without the hint of decay or cavity.
My laugh is one of knowing
the war has for now been laid to rest.
Thirty-two entrenched reinforcements chant
“There is no such thing as powerless.”