A series of offshoot omens

in memoriam

The days are long and go to waste, Life occurs off camera.
Hours have passed without success, searching for an ancient sword
Named after its forger, and to be wielded only in his name:

A thirteen-artist inspiration strikes –
Perseverance as a sign of competence,
Leading the skilled out of their misery,
Into a biblical doom.
The best and blasphemous excuse
to outdo god in his creation, and beget
The foundations of a new Arthurian myth,
Until the weapon is destroyed.

Then, the emperor cries, denies and realises
He is but a member
Of the human race.

If ever I felt the same, I was backtracking in the footsteps
Of ambitious ancestors, adamant in a real and raw refusal
Of children born to lower class.
But I,
I am made whole by the scorn of prophecy,
And the ills of convoidsequence.
My father’s father was the sword;
The son my son begets will be the legend.

I am the missing link.

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