The native sun burns fiery when invoked.

His spirit lives unconquered, trusts no man.

Learned his lesson from time passed and lives lost.

Another’s mercurial existence.

Volatile, like a clandestine chemist.

He will respond quicker than the message.

Love and desire become venomous.

When the changer of hearts becomes involved.

His fortune, virility, gone to waste.

His mother does not approve of the whore.

Anne Williams bring burned at the stake for ma...

Bringing the sound of thunder to his sky.

His father would have preferred a flower.

Who would not have sacrificed his valor.

Accepted his virtues as those of men.

The white ox gifted to the triumphant.

The pleasure of drawing his chariot.

Until the king is usurped, forgotten.

The weapons were released from bloody hands.

They only served to reap what had been sown.

His destruction was her expiation.

Heaven’s deluge is tears for his passing.

Avenging his severance with flowers.

A veil worn to protect the nuptial.

The waters have dried, can’t dissipate heat.

Salacious and wicked. Never trust her.

The History of the World: Respect for Elders

Beijing :: Mausoleum of Mao Zedong






The hero was born; a farmer again

Joined the revolution to lead the way

Victorious, he left still young at heart

Scholar to be revered in days ahead

But the struggles intrigued, so he studied

He discovered how to share and joined peers

Attended discussions on how to be

Represented them at conferences

Interests rekindled for the uprisings

Worked for the nationalists with wisdom

Uprising, because you won’t kill them off

Weakness to women, but not yet suffer

Lesson learned, go find another to love

Growing influence councilled those who share

A little brother that would end up more

Growing force supported by the people

They were hungry, because others had naught

Victory yet not, they return to base

Warlord conspires to end the conflict

Knowledged experience is practical

Fragile allies broken by treachery

Time to rectify within the circle

The Hero sat on a chair to speak thoughts

The treacherous arrive to assess him

Occupiers alike must face defeat

The Hero defeated, chased them away

The People laid siege to the cowardly

The nation established for the People

He shaped the nation for them with his will

Changes were made, and traitors were removed

People celebrated and were happy

But he knew the culture would have to change

He told the secessionists they should stay

Then the treacherous tried to stage nearby

Years later they would come pay their respects

But the treacherous elements pervade

And it became tough when the allies changed

So he created a plan to outpace

He counted every man to leave none

Through the collective, everyone would win

Replaceable, never regretting loss

And those who cause suffering shall be gone

Momentum and progress brought a new plan

He saw the allies grow and had to try

Paying respect to elders the whole time

And he said the treacherous could not stay

The treacherous said that he shouldn’t share

But second-rate he would not let them be

And he knew that forward was the future

Sacrifice and ethics were all the same

But they marred his name because of progress

The treacherous counted deaths as products

Playing with numbers to maim the Hero

He wanted to share, live by principles

Rather than the treacherous principal

He asked for faith to speed by thievery

To feed every mouth was the implied task

Farmers, industrialists; contribute

And natural disasters combated

And he fixed it so no man was hungry

He paid the elders and fed the allies

Others decried that food was not enough

The Hero needed to educate them

How to become strong the Hero well knew

Even if others were not yet convinced

The People needed to change to see it

Greed has no place in a society

And other things the Hero said were truths

Then he said the People had changed, progressed

Number games made losses seem apparent

So the leaders divided, unconquered

New allies formed and reconciled ideas

Until the unthinkable became truth

The People would be forced to let him go

The Hero solely kept in memory

New leaders must now guide the collective

While the treacherous continued campaigns

Successes questioned by those who weren’t there

Yet the image of the Hero remained

The History of the World: Ally Betrayed

Omar Torrijos Mausoleum in Amador, Panama City... He was the beast’s. Trained, compliant and complicit. It taught him to steal, so that when it set him free, he would steal for the beast. His job was to betray his own people, in order to feed the beast that had taught him its ways. He was to be an asset, an ally, less than a brother, almost a friend. But he was his own man, with goals and aspirations independent of his suitor’s. He sought power that could quell the beast’s hunger and satiate his own. He was defiant. He sought to make that well, and drew sword to battle with leeches the beast sent. But then the beast sent more. Angered, the freeman fought the leeches again. Through these trying years, his temperament boiled for the beast. He embraced his brothers that the beast sought to rape, and he became a man of the people, united against the beast. Everyone has heroes, and his was a man who spoke to the beast, who attempted to soothe it with words. But such beasts cannot be tamed so, hunger of fire. The beast stole his hero with an appetite unsuppressed. Consumed him for anger, and a fear that the words would spread. Without a hero, he now had to become his own, for the people. Then the beast sent forth his own jewelled and masqued persuaders, those proprietors of prosperity who put out their hands and demanded all wealth. But he would not have it. For as many minions as the beast parted to grow its influence, that same strength grows in him to counter. Gods, kings and generals who would shape the world to their likings. And just as those before him, he would allow himself unseated for the better, tragic as that fate becomes. But he was still the hero of the people, and least in temporary. And others would recognize his feats, some peers that sought allies, and others in praise. Brothers in arms we find in some, and should we unite, only then can the beast be destroyed. But the beast accused him of filth, of treachery, for now it was starting to realize the danger of such a well-trained power. He could defeat the beast, given the chance. But he sought to prove that the people loved him more. Once more, he allowed for opportunities of insubordination and usurpation, but the momentum never gathered, and his elected post was upheld by the people. He was their hero, despite the lies of the beast, there he remained, defiant to the thing that sought to use him. But the beast lacked caring, consideration, and most of all patience. The beast’s hunger raged, wanting to consume the entire world. But at times heroes stand in the way. So the beast attacks them first, for the others remain bystanders in its wake. And once the beast sinks its claws and fangs into the hero’s neck, it is done. The hero gives up. Too often, the beast is too powerful. It overwhelms the most tenacious of fighters with power accumulated and amassed from conquests past. And once the hero is slain, the beast drains power from his people, taking until nothing is left, not even the will to fight. And it takes time, and circumstances, for heroes to develop again. The hero is consumed by the beast. He is alive but changed, imprisoned in chains, inside the beast. He can defy it no longer. Slowly he becomes meek and timid. Such strange helplessness feelings produce. He is no longer one with the masses, but one of a few. Without him, they will carry on, but he not for long. And if the beast shall relieve himself, if the hero is emptied from its bowels, he will not be freed. For the lesser beasts, the ones that deem themselves of a secondary power, will feast on the feces of the beast, and imprison the hero once more. His purpose defeated, the hero is no longer able to fight, has lost his will and his way. The hero rose, and then the hero fell, with the hope his glory and grace came to a head and were not unbalanced in the end. The hero’s battle with the beast awoke his people, and now they are aware. His task is complete, at quite the cost to himself. Now his people know, yet still lack the ability to fight the beast.

100 years of love and war

She rewarded him for waiting so long. It had been 100 years. Sure she had been unfaithful, but now they could be together again at last! It had been during the last war of 100 years, their love separated by nations, separated by war. She said she would wait for him forever. But that couldn’t happen. Because as she waited, she grew restless, because she was yet courted as though her husband no longer existed, though he did. Her suitors pried and questioned, probed until she was molested, asking for her hand in a literal moment, with perhaps more to follow. And she couldn’t resist. Weak without her husband’s arms to fall into each and every night, she succumbed to the embraces of others. She welcomed them into her home, without ill intent, to paint the house, or move furniture, or help her perform any number of her former’s husbandly tasks. And they took advantage. Licentious, vile men, with no considerations for others’ claims, desires or needs. They behaved upon their instincts, reckless, careless, inconsiderate of what relations they could destroy. But she let it happen. She provoked them with her clothing, her exposed flesh, that those undisciplined creatures could not control themselves. She accepted their initial advances, afraid to withstand what her lonesomeness feared for lack. And she allowed their touches to wander, placed hands and closened bodies with parts that her husband could not accept, though understanding he could sometimes be. It is difficult to wait 100 years with so many pursuits waiting to offend. And once one entered, he paved that wrongful path for others. There was no stopping them now. Pursuit and coyness, contact and acceptance, lustful thrusts at the end of once inadvertent paths. There was no turning back. She had betrayed him through faults, and others through the same.

But he had waited 100 years. Hundreds of miles and an international boundary apart, he would hop on a rocket to fly back to her, if he could. At the start of the war, he had been sent to the northern border, tensions with every flinch or flicker, a hair-trigger ready to resume the war. And there he waited, not a movement, not a sound. And when his rest cycle came, he wrote to her. How much he loved her and missed her and wished they would be together again. And his luck would find such a reward, initial though it would be. He was granted mid-tour leave, and traveled home, full of elation, and all the anticipated pleasures of holding her in his arms again. Waiting for a shared embrace, and wondering if it would lead to romance, or even love-making. It could happen a thousand ways, and he imagined every possibility, lost in his fantasies the entire flight home, only interrupted by such lesser stewardesses than the steward of his cupid’s heart. And when he finally departed the plane, his elation wasn’t intervened by her absence, because he knew her limitations. And that couldn’t stop his love. So he continued headstrong to her supposed waiting embrace and met her at their lovely home. Somebody’s car was in the driveway. They were pulling away. He went up to the door and knocked. She yelled to him to “just come in.” She smiled nervously when he saw her, and continued washing the dishes in the sink. “It’s hot,” was how she explained her clothing. He didn’t care. He started to kiss her, and pauses for slight words led them eventually to bed where they made love. She made a comment when he finished, and their joyous reunion was complete, discussions returning to the material for the remainder of his visit, until he had to return to his employ and obligations.

Montage of Iran-Iraq War He was returned to the eastern front of the war. His efforts there would lead to an eventual accumulation of awards, medals and promotions to rival Audie Murphy himself. He was the most competent private, executing every assigned task or detail to perfection, pleasing his NCOs beyond delight. But he still managed his recovery time well, with a “Sergeant, can I write home to my wife tonight?” These same NCOs became his senior NCOs when he finally joined their corps. Nobody was more professional than he. All his soldiers loved him, and that helped his senior leadership by allowing him and his men to accomplish every mission successfully. And when he grew into the ranks of senior NCO, all of his wisdom earned over half the war earned him the respect of his subordinates, and great trust and confidence placed in him by the officers appointed over him. In the second half of the war he earned a battlefield commission, and though overtasked as he was, he still managed sit down after meetings following meetings before meetings, and wrote to his wife love letters or poems. He never heard back from her. He continued to work, expend every energy save for that one letter back home, and eventually he took command. As a commander he won every decisive engagement in the field, and some not so decisive back in garrison. And by the time he had commanded units through flawless campaigns, they decided to make him a general. He wrote home to tell his wife about his new positions, how it bothered him that they wasted and entire PSD team on just him, and that they even assigned him personnel to take care of his laundry. His secretary followed him around and scheduled and took notes for his mind to be free for decisions. He knew he could do everything himself, yet his wife never wrote back to tell him whether she agreed.

When he returned after 100 years, things were strange. He tried to resume where they left off. It began with that first embrace, the heart-pounding thrill of holding the woman who loved him, the pure elation of holding her tight in his arms again, swinging her around and around, then setting her down and peppering her face with kisses, her soft cheeks, her lips, eyes closed, the reckless abandon of unfettered love. Eventually, though, they had to leave the airport. Dismay. But not before long they were back home, mere steps inside the doorway before they started again, passion overtaking 100 years’ worth of cares and worries, every kiss worth 1,000 ‘I miss you’. Her warmth and her soft skin rekindled a fire that was burning furiously for her now. But she made him stop. They had to bring in his bags from the car. Quickly completing tedious hindrances, that first night back with her awoke his full passions once more, never alight but wrought through 100 years of sufferance that could finally be appeased. Their renewed honeymoon would not sustain though, and could not last. He tried to buy her things like before, and spend more time together as well, but he would start to see that she was different now. Lovers once, lovers always, but not forever, no. He took her out, tried to begin life anew, though it was not. 100 years had changed the both of them, irreconciled them for eternity, whether they realized it or not. He tried to involve her in his life, and she a little him in hers, but they were two separate lives now, having been experienced as strangers, with others, but never each other. Yet every fool is taught to believe in impossible, to believe in what we know cannot be true. Truly, 100 years? How absurd. But he refused to believe so. And he didn’t realize until it was too late. He tried to pamper the woman who wasn’t anymore his, and she tried to accept him. But after 100 years, the best answer wasn’t ‘forever’. It was never, outrageous though it may seem to erase their history of 100 years.