By Thomas Page
Rivers meet and separate without care
To humanity’s wishes. They flow and ebb
According to the cycles set before the rivers
Began to speak with a soft rage cutting
Rocks from earth , easing the seasons into
The practices of these breathing an element
Forming its very essence of water.
From this bank, a hero emerges to do
Something beyond the sowing and reaping
To spew fibers of legends sewn to
Become the tapestries of those claiming
The blood shared by origins and royals.
This hero may be any one who turns
Away from the evils of the self which
Take a blade to the trees built on the banks
Of the rivers.—
—He or she, dressed in the
Raiments deserving of penstrokes, hurries
Into whatever battle or myth or
Lost truth fantasized by happy poets
Regaling the time when someone stood out
Among the wheat or rice to challenge the
Sun, the moon, the the stars, the rain, the clouds.
The hero, a sieve of malice, cements the
Walls of the city holding those common
Possession claimed by the same kind under
A banner flying over the rivers
Which flow without any regard to them.
A hero is born like any other of
His or her kind, must change to suit their deaths.
Daughters of eagles, sons of bulls must be
Ordained as the sources of except’nal
People revered by the same lot as them.
Statues are erected for all to mimic
The posed display of what it means to be;
To be great, to be righteous, to be kind,
To be honorable, to be exemplary,
To be what they all should be as they are.
The statue does’t cry, doesn’t bleed red,
Doesn’t live, doesn’t die, doesn’t any
Action besides freezing a moment in
Time when their humanness was overcome
Like the river flowing without regard