written by Khris Comstock

 

 

The red has come
The beast lifts his head and sniffs
Smelling anger on the air
His hands flex, he feels his wings
Tense in anticipation of the flight
Restlessly, he prowls his chamber, his den
Hands outstretched toward the red
He craves it
He needs it
For without it, he dies
The sleep of hibernation

Footsteps echo in seldom used halls
His ears perk up with the sound
His wings outstretch, then retract and tremble
Hands rub together, creating heat
To be expelled during battle
He reaches for the weapon
And rejoices in the feel of plastic

The red sparkles bright with blood held in check
Bathes the beast in light, giving him strength
The door rattles impatiently
The Beast peers out the hole in the door
There only so he can gaze with lust
Upon the part of life that means 'free'
Yet too small for him to fit through
Trapping him in solitude
Awaiting the red and the key

The snick of the key and the door torn asunder
Bursting, exploding out with a bang!
The red is there holding open her arms
Embracing the beast at long last
The purple of passion mixes with the red of rage
The beast draws a soul straining breath
Merging, changing, mutating, evolving
Creating the perfect instrument of magenta fury

The wings on his back spread out to the wind
Majestic and full to the third eye
Wild, untamed, he leaps and soars
Avenging he leaps to do battle
The red watching from within
Clutching his plastic pen to his side
Thrusting in practice he floats on a dream
Landing on clean fields of white

The ink of his wrath slashes in fury
Stabbing at pages and pages of lines
The ink of his weapon, the pen, flows true
Showing no mercy as it strikes friend and foe
The opposed crouch down, wishing to escape
But he sniffs them out like a dog
Their screams he muffles with globs of ink
That form into rorschach blots on the walls
And ooze to form blobs of unease on the floor

The opposed fight back, their weapons the same
But they are no match for the winged mighty
He swells with the passion of the purple
He bulges with the rage of the red
Together united they form the magenta beast
The winged avenger unleashed from the dark cell
to answer the call they sent forth

The fight wages on filling line after line
Of the battlefield now doused in blood
Bits and pieces of the enemies litter the page
Concentrated in globs to dot every I
And apparent in every slash of a T
Shreds of humanity peek out from the blots
Littering the field with their pieces
Giving mute testimony to the might of the beast
Who has vanquished them in battle


Leisurely, the beast flies away
The red is taking him home
Removing the anger from the purple of passion
The beast hunkers down in his den
Slaked from the battle of which he did well
Sated, he caresses his weapon
The red carefully locks up the mighty magenta
Dooming him once again to the sleep

The beast sniffs his cell, the red has gone
Taking with it the light he craves
Drowsy, he rakes his claws on the pen
Chalking up his death count
Chuckling at their looks that pepper his dreams
And allow him to sleep undisturbed
While the red hides within shadows, both locked away
The red and the beast

The rage that once freed him
Now holds him at bay
He rides only in the face of great fury
Slashing his mark on the page
Wrecking unbearably horrible symbolic death
On the enemies of the red
Who become the enemies of the pen
And the enemies of the wings

The beast furls his wings and prepares for slumber
His deeds immortalized in unpublished lines
Safely entombed in the pages of lust
Hidden away from the world in a book
The red becomes the pink of peace
Removing itself from the beast
The beast rests with the pen in his arms
Wrapped in his wings as he snores
To emerge once again when he's awaken
From hibernation by the rage of the red

 

copyright February 14, 1991
113 lines

Khris Comstock
Golden Poet 1990, World of Poetry Submission

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