The Emperor

 

Featured in Star*Line Volume 37 Issue 1

 

He is crowned in swan-carved helm,

its head forged of night-black iron,

beak catching the moonglow in its bowl.

His armor is Midas-touched,

tempered steel with crests of lions

devouring wolves.

Poppies are carved upon his gauntlets,

red runes scribbled down his greaves.

By his side hangs heavy steel in a golden sheath.

 

He watches his armies march

from his great shadow destrier,

snorting in glimmering metal.

 

He places himself atop hills

and mountains, his gaze drifting

over the mass of burning aspens

and thatched roofs aflame;

the clash of steel wafting upon the breeze,

scent of copper blood at its heels.

 

He says he can hear the trees screaming,

his eyes arced with lightning,

pulsing red as they see Ares’ black beard

rise in thick wisps

toward the unblinking night.

 

By dawn the smolder

is sun-kissed and sleeping.

He squints at the horizon,

building spires out of the golden rays

and the aspens now silent

under the ash.

 

He whispers to his steed in those moments,

telling it that one day

they will both forget the scent of blood,

and when peace is won,

it will teach its foals

 

how to drink from the river.