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.