Battle Of The Teutoburg Forest: An Ode Poem by Cory Huennekens

C.L. Hünnekens

My mind is a puzzle dumped out on the floor
Except, I don't want to put it back together anymore
The picture is so pretty
At least it is on the box

The hands on the clock spin round and round
They call it cyclical,
But we all end up underground
Some call it homeward bound

If life is a journey why do we sit and spin
Walking down the same roads
Wondering how we got there again
Alone and surrounded by people named Friend

If you're walking forward your shoes become worn
And if you run through thorns your pants become torn
Will you curse the bush or look to the sky with scorn
Festering until you wish you were never born

So I spoke in rhymes and riddles and they didn't know
In any cause it doesn't matter because they wouldn't go
We cover our nakedness every morning
But we say it isn't a show

The flowers are all so beautiful each with its smell
Yet a vase is her coffin
Your lovely living room her hell

The drum beat changes, steady, thundering like war
Marching in perfect time, stepping on the seconds
Thud..Thud...Thud..Thud...Thud..Thud...Thud....
A hush falls like a cloud heavy with rain
In this moment all the bullshit falls away

Rain pelts their stone faces like pebbles against a wall
They blink not. They think not. They act.
Action is inscribed on each fiber of muscle.
The boy's face is green. His stomach weak. He speaks.
The man is unmoved. His body relaxed. Inhale, exhale.

Dark green and black and purple and deep blue.
The silence echos, the mud grows thick, the rain pelts.
Tsit tsit, tsit tsit tsit, tsit, tsit tsit, tsit, tsit tsit tsit, tsit.
Apparitions of their spirits dance from their nostrils,
Like a genie from the bottle.
The boy's face is tender from the icy cold-
The rain stings like ssssslllltttt darts.
The man's face is numb. He is unmoved.

The flowers have all been trampled into the mud.
The color has disappeared from the landscape,
Like the color from a seasick child's face.
A blast from the ram's horn is heard from the far right.
The drums stop. The rain stops. Time stops.
The crescendo is reached
Icarus has reached his zenith
His wings are now but running wax.