Wounded, I limp back from the shore Where Iago and I dueled a week before. Though I see no scabs nor scars, Infection festers under my skin.
Simple suggestion, Not banshee wail, Was his effective weapon. What cure is there for my ail?
I sought an answer from the sea, But there was no reply. I requested knowledge From the rolling hills,
An answer faint Floated away on the breeze. The city streets I pounded, Pleading for release,
But it was temporary, Ill effects of Iago’s dart, Wolf pack of lies Still closing in around my heart.
There are labors to perform, So I gather my strength; Wounds mention but not at length, Mostly I ignore.
Floating o’er the ether, Slipping through the speakers, Dulcet sounds envelop the space.
No siren song luring away, No piper’s call to come and play; No healing light in which to bathe. Naught but work and banter.
Yet it’s what I needed, It seeps inside; Finds the wolves, Turns the tide.
I’m ninety percent there But the day is done; I try again the city streets. Still no cure, but I quicken my pace.
Almost home, bits become current, Current transduced into a familiar song; Strength taken from the bridge:
But if you’ve got the angst or you’ve got the ardor You might faint from the fight but you’re gonna find it For every challenge could have paradise behind it
Blues Traveler, Stand
Elation finds me And takes away The remaining tinge; My skin feels whole again.
Author’s note: I wanted to end this on a positive note, but TBH, Iago will be back. I’ll have to do a part 2 sometime; maybe that will have a happier ending?
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 