The First, his bones creak. The kick of his artillery jolts his body
And he moves with it, a jerky dance that goes unnoticed
As the air is filled with the sound of metal and collisions –
Something akin to the din of a train, one with no destination.
Despite the lack of a target, he is victorious.
Those bullets that struck flesh are enough to dye the world
And through the new red tint, somehow it goes unnoticed
That those untainted bullets could make
The earth a lovely necklace.
In the rejoicing for the First, he is overlooked. The Second
Moves slowly. Thumb stroking over the cold metal
That he has kept concealed within his breast his whole life.
It has been called his nervous habit,
His need to scrape his flesh over that blade.
Long ago the skin of his hands turned to gold, hidden beneath
The callouses formed by this nervous habit. The rhythmic scraping
Of metal flesh on metal matches the pace of his eyes
As he marvels.
And more so
As he readies to strike.