Falling For The Trap (of his own rhetorical thirst)

Felled by the ward of his intransigence,
levelled and laid flat, sword brandished
in denial – sword wafting words uttered
emphatically in a trial of words by words,
falling for the trap of his own rhetorical
thirst, falling into the gap between those
who run first and those who carp and
cry in the pack – an empty husk cracked
and ablated, an old fool trashed.

He rises from the refuse pile and smiles
awkwardly; the weight of years is erased
in a cloak of discarded peel and wilted
celery, he feels the freedom beckoning,
he steals a glance at the husk in the
recycled livery of an unnatural trance,
shakes his tangled hair, shambles from
a grave of arrogance – is there still room
out there for an old stager – somewhere?
© I.D. Carswell 2007-01-31