Changing of the Guard

by michaelcahill

Figures in a fog. Swords and sticks and exploding things. Convictions and convincing hand in hand as mankind scurries along the woodwork of the landscape drawing lines and planting flags. Flags bear no fruit, nor do spore spring from them to surprise the soil of a barren undiscovered land.

Kingdoms are garish things, loud and without flourish. Beards reek of flowing grease and fermented grape.

A dance behind sheer fabric dulls a warrior's mind. Muscle doesn't think.

Finally, the morning comes and mankind evolves. Voices trill in pleasant song. The loveliest girl in the world hands me a jar. "Would you open this for me, the lid is too tight?" She winks at a billion women who smile. I become a part of Shangri La.

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Changing of the Guard

by michaelcahill

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