he brushes the dust off his shoulders
and stands up again.
a brighter blight steps up to the plate
but this time he's ready
he's got iron steeling his step
and a glass of tacks to keep down the
bloody bile rising rising rising
rushing like a river over stones and moss
always adrift with the current to keep
him steady
but he's ready
he's sure of it.
it shoots and misses
he breathes a sigh of relief
at last letting clean air flood his chest
but when the second hit comes-
when it strikes true-
when he falls to the ground
blood breaking bones
like a soft-boiled egg he's cracked open
exposed to what's inside
the softness of life is spilled
but the blight only laughs and awaits
the next chance to aim
and strike down the
courageous.