by Cora MacGregor

He who once, child-like, wept, seeing needless

Death, now, clad in bronze, attacks a fourth time.

Ablaze with another’s glory, heedless,

Like something inhuman, like something divine.

In costume, playing once the hero, but already

The god. And dormant ambition is freed:

Instinctive, his spear in his hand steady,

As he splinters troops, fells men like trees.

Mindless and manless, a killing machine;

Fearful and fearless, from outside he’s seen.

Borne by an impulse greater than himself.

The impulse to be greater than himself.