Dragged behind an ovulating mule
hands tied, he felt a fool,
battered, cut, bruised and spat on
his helmet lost in a field, a straw hat on
his head like a fistful of hay
upon a disheveled sleigh,
his bare feet into bloody ribbons ripped,
where the going was uneven, he slipped
and slid murmuring with pain,
his agony beating martial tunes on his unprotected brain.
After a day of walking
too numb for talking,
they reached the Castle of Troom
where his capturers had booked him a room.
No comments:
Post a Comment