I’m bronze, you say
but isn’t that last?
I’m a tertiary warrior
sprinting and tripping
with a pock-marked shield
and worn-down sandals
But I would slay them
all for you
of my odds
The pointed spindles
lashing at my legs
the roar of the chariot
running me down
It wouldn’t matter
The spray of blood
like sun-lightened lilacs
spilling onto the sand
(It almost looks like art)
You are the first
every second, precious
Your bronze gauntlets
I remain
if you let me?


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