Resimor P. Moc is tracking the Bear
relentlessly, he fixes his stare,
grinds his teeth, clenching
in blindness the head-wrenching
reins – reminders of bidding power – and he steers,
steers, steers toward the mirage, the unclear uncertain promise
in a barrage of whip-cracks. He entertains
gruelling thoughts. Stacked in his pouch, they sustain
his personal duel. He gallops,
conviction sealed in regrets gracefully
kept in balance, hanging from the air
he breathes, dangling in a despair he feels
but cannot see. His needs
have been changed, his deeds rearranged
to accommodate the faces
he travels with. Onwards he marches,
races, endures, reassessing his course,
yielding to any force that wields promise or threat.
Drenched in pouring rain, soaking wet,
he pushes on, pushed by the storm
that rages around him, his form obscured in mist,
grey sky, bland and choking apprehension.
Passing through settlements, enduring tensions,
he notes how the landscape shifts,
he settles on ground flowing adrift,
settles for less, always less, transformed by the fire
that forges his present and growing desire to reach
his objective, to give it all in order to receive,
in order to achieve his goal.
He must find the Bear, the Golden Fleece
to set his mind at ease, render his concessions
worthwhile. Great misgivings caress his style
and though he still knows it not,
he bargained everything he had,
gave away his space to venture in a trodden place
engulfed in doubt,
mist that leads him like a sodden priest
to heavens nowhere to be found,
to kingdoms fallen and forlorn.
He lingers on, he looks around
and sees them march in muted sorrow,
his fellow steeds, his fellow mares,
he scrutinises the weights on their battered backs:
Riders of Self-Doom, their features chiselled with misery,
a host of gloom. They ride in their thousands, a company of ghosts,
trampling over what they once loved above all.
It’s been ages since they first got together and marched in search
of the Bear and the Fleece. Their essence now besmirched,
they stumble and fall, feeling sorry, not wiser.
Behold the sad army of the great Compro Miser.