Full Circle

Always stuck in the middle,
in the middle, 'till it's done.
Don't swing hard, don't swing fast,
don't aim high, only bunt.

It's the only way to hit,
if you ever want to run
to the base, to the place,
that you think that you want.

When you get to that spot,
you'll see you're nowhere close to done.
So you wait for your chance:
chance to run, run, and run.

Just to get where you started.
Back to home: oh what fun.
What's it take just to stop
all these circles in the sun?

Beyond the prairie,
grew the grade.
As we trekked
the mountain's shade,
Earth grew stony underfoot,
the wind blew unallayed.
Two of the horses
were made lame
before a quarter trip was made,
so we divided up their burden,
and made camp for the day.
Two more night's march,
boulders growing along the way,
brought us 'round to skirt the giant,
the landscape: disarray.
A man was thrown from mount,
and he died, to our dismay,
in a state of so much pain
it was a frightening display.
The ground was much too vile
for the horses on this foray.
Two men left, for the castle,
with the equines, at my say.

We left the mountain's shadow
for the heat of a new day.

The warmth was welcomed
by the men and I,
after our climb
on the mountainside.
Quickly, though, we realized:
The sun was wolf,
in sheep's disguise.
We shed the wools,
and all the hides,
carried a minimum
of supplies,
and still we found,
to our surprise,
a heat that cooked us all alive.
It scorched our skin,
and burned our eyes
with pain that grew
throughout the night.

We then travelled in the darkness
for what seemed an endless flight.
We tried to sleep during the day,
but the sun yet brought us plight.
We travelled two days under moon,
and one day through the light.
On the fourth day in the desert,
our objective lay in sight.

Through our land, the forest knew
what we were, and were about.
We travelled unmolested,
our own personal redoubt.
The hunting there was easy.
The game was all about,
and the forest seemed to mourn us
as we made our way back out.

To the north of the forest
lay the plains and river mouth,
where the marsh filled the lands,
thawing miles south.
To the east, lay our mine.
The Queen hid thereabout.

Steeling my resolve,
I challenged nature with a shout:
"Throw what you will at me,
you will not block my path,
for it is love that guides me,
I can survive your cruelest wrath,
but take pity on my men!
They don't deserve to hear the laugh
of fickle nature's whim,
as they breathe their dying last.
Let us through the land we're in!
We only beg you let us pass!"

I held a coin up to the wind,
And let it fall into the grass.
The men all did the same;
tradition from ages passed
still echoed to this day,
the sentiment unsurpassed.

We mounted and rode away
through a prairie of spun glass.
The ice-coated wheat,
lit by the sun, like polished brass,
made us bringers of destruction:
the shattered trails of our trespass
were evidence of our intrusion,
in scattered gold aftermath.

I gathered men,
and gathered tents,
gathered water,
ropes and mince,
bows and quivers,
slings and stones,
and all the knights
who bravely fence.
...And cried the wenches
and the wives,
in their fear of ill portent,
so I left them all behind,
and struck out with only ten.
Others volunteered,
but I feared The Queen would win,
and leave a village full of widows
with no one to defend.
I needed stealth to stop the wretch,
a small team to get me in,
and the men could save their homes
should a larger war begin.

The mountain shades our valley:
The path long and thin,
to the other side of the Titan,
to the caves of burning wind.
The first leg of the journey:
The cold of winter's bend,
then the heat that boils brains
through hair, and skull, and skin.

So with provisions, well-wishes,
kisses, and gifts from love and kin,
I took my men
through the most vicious limits
the elements could comprehend.

I found the room was gone,
leaving my head spinning.
I was standing near a mountain,
vast chasm grinning.
Lamps within the cavern
took their turns dimming
as the wind teased their flames:
The tongues of dragons spitting.
I flew back into my head
as I heard the rock splitting.

So The Queen hides herself
beneath a mountain's peak...
I knew of only one summit
she could reach at any speed.
Suddenly, I was filled
with a sense of dire need.
Righteous rage, smelted anger,
rose to bloom inside of me.
The weight of knowledge,
and of hope,
forged a blade of urgency.
Is this blade of mine a tool?
Is pressing rage a strategy?
...Or am I forced to play the fool?
Is this tale a tragedy?
While I reacted to the visions,
I shook violently,
and heard the gurgle of the beast,
as he breathed in labored heaves.

"Listen filth;
He who is made of dead leaves,
if only for the reason
he is what the worms eat.
There is less purpose for you
than there is for rotted meat.
Why are you so intent
on that I try and I succeed?
What business is it of yours,
I wield a sword against The Queen?"

At every curse uttered,
Rumpelstiltskin seemed to lean
a little lower, in the shoulders,
like the sadness of defeat,
but once again, he drew the curtain,
his demeanor growing mean.
He looked stronger in his anger
than anyone I'd ever seen.

"Do you not know yet, Royal One?!?"
He exclaimed explosively.
"Do you not think that I take notice,
When I see you pity me,
And insult me, and degrade me,
Simultaneously?
What was it you said
the first time you heard me speak?
I greeted you as friend,
and I repulsed you instantly!
If I have anger, and I do,
it is for she who made this be..."

The answer satisfied more
than my curiosity.
I almost pitied him then and there,
but for the mention in his speech,
the maniacal in his eyes,
the pain hidden beneath.

It is that way I recall him,
Looking back in memory,
And it is that way he stood silent,
As I took my quiet leave.
Like a tree, where once was forest:
Too lonely there to grieve,
and no reprieve in the weather,
only wave and wave of heat.

I peered into the mirror,
and saw that same look upon me.

I was awakened
from my dream,
chased away
by dying screams.
****** scenes
filled my head
until it bursted at the seams.
I lay upon my bed,
sunlight pouring through the screens,
Rumpelstiltskin looming over:
the example of serene.

"Mr. Prince, you're awake,
and unharmed, as you can see."
Said the mountain of corruption
that towered over me.
"We shared a little piece
of what makes us both unique.
You saw gutted, sloppy, ******,
with an underlying greed.
Deprivation, destitution,
the ******* lies beneath:
This putrefaction on the outside
reflects the horrors I have seen."
The beast again looked hurt,
then his face was wiped clean.
"While you recovered,
while you slumbered,
I have crafted you this thing.
It will take you to the brightest.
It will lead you to The Queen,
but you decide when you arrive
how you further will proceed,
when you gaze upon her face,
and you wish for it to bleed."

From behind his twisted back,
appeared a mirror lain with gold.
Rose and thorn and stem
adorned the filigree of its mold.
The glass of the mystery
showed depths I leave untold,
and the handle in my grip
felt of ice, it was so cold.

"Before I leave you to your quest,
be warned, I hold your heart in thrall.
A little piece of you to keep,
a price to pay so very small.
When your objective do you seek,
Ask the mirror. That is all:
Place it high upon the mantle,
and its magic you will call."

I did as he instructed,
and I summoned up my gall.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
where's the brightest one of all?
The burning flame, spells unclean,
I seek to find the evil queen.
The people fear her blackened hand,
whose shadow darkens all the land,
and so to seek this darkest night,
I must find this brightest light."

The mirror seemed to grow, and swell,
and shrink, and twist, and glow as well.
It seemed as though a cosmic veil
was thrown aside, and truth prevailed.

Screams sliced through the snow
(Falling heavy)
A warrior practices his throw
(Getting ready)
The butcher and the dead men know
(You pay the levy)
Who decides where the meat carts go?
(There isn't any)
So the three largest men
were lured within,
and the butcher had plenty to smoke.
Who decides where the meat carts go?

Whispers.
Barely heard sniggers.
Shouts, screams, and cries
fill the air with vigor.
Confusion gains theme
as chaos becomes victor:
Faces frozen in death,
bodies locked in rigor,
bolts growing from chests,
the hook of a cross bolt trigger.

Children burned alive,
fingerless hands searching for moms.
Parents made to watch,
then dismembered by the mob.

Pots of gold of such abundance,
they could never be carried off;
the thieves who hid the riches: dead.
The treasure: forever lost.

All corruption,
all *******,
was within these visions found.
Much too many were too vile
for the words that I lay down.
I search for meaning now,
and know that none is found.
As I read what I have written,
descriptions are only sound:
only air, moved by a body,
not yet in the ground.

Who decides where the meat carts go?