Deep in the Well of Savage Salvation

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Empire Taxes

Empire Taxes
I am your Emperor and you will pay me the Taxes you owe

Empire Taxes

Empire Taxes
I am your Emperor. You must support the Realm!

"Chronicle Groupie"
Hyperion September 1, 2010

Note: this poem is a continuation of "Anacrusis Itare," which should be read first.


The Lion preys in stalks of maize that hide his mane and eyes and scent. He lies in wait for further fate to fall his way and start the play that never seeks to ask the sleek cat how he feels about his meals; as if that's real: not him but pain upon your brain for thinking sane when it's a game --Is it a game? Yes, it's a game; a game of names, but nothing's changed. It stays the same. That's why the blame goes with the fame and how the prey did get away, and that is all I have to say; goodbye forever and a day. 

I see you. 
I see through you. 
I see through you, not in that way, 
But in that I see through you to the 
Light shining behind you, and the Darkness fades.
Eyes close of their own accord. 
Blinding white light, like someone shining highbeams. 
Unknown origin.
Eye crack open, fearful and afraid. 
Where did the Light come from, when eyes were closed?
Why does it hurt so?


"So we waltzed for one moment, 
But too soon, we had a spat, 
In that one awful moment, 
Something happened to my hat.
So I'll keep changing partners 
'till I find my hat again, 
And believe me I will never
Take my hat off again."

The Bloodfire trembles quietly. 
Tiny bubbles of escaped fury rise to the surface and 
Snap in the air with defiant crackle. 
Pieces of the world, too unsubstantial to escape the 
Chance breeze, are rendered silken ash if they 
Float over the miasmatic mixture. 

The Emerald Lion lies nearby, 
Undisturbed by the Bloodfire's taunts.  
A stone. 
Maybe he doesn't notice. 
Maybe he can't see. 
Maybe it's too late. 

                                  A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh

Dark eyes, 
Dark wings, 
Dark thoughts 
Alight high on the wind.  
Soon, their bones tell them.  

                                  A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh

Oh, Liiiiiiiiiiiiii-on.  
Wake up, kitty.  
They're coming. 

                                  A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh

Blood is Life
Blood is Magic
Blood is Death
Blood is Tragic

"A game of names, 
but nothing's changed. 
It stays the same. 
That's why the blame 
goes with the fame 
and how the prey 
did get away...."

A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh 
A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh.
In the desert, the lonely desert, the Lion sleeps tonight. 
In the desert, the dying desert, the Lion weeps tonight.  

EndNote: The third Stanza (VII, continuing the notation from the first poem) is a bastardization of a Patti Page song called "Changing Partners." I thought the lyrics I had were correct (I didn't write them; I heard them as a child), and I was going to use them because they fit better in that spot than anything I could write. I was shocked to learn it's not the original song.  Same tune, though, in case you are familiar.


To be Continued?

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