the adversary, the mirror and the pauper

i'll elbow you out of the way said the strong to the weak - then make up for it by throwing a penny as a consolation prize. i'll be pushed out when a tidal force is too much - though it is bruises, lament and a touch of regret that retreat was the only option. a breadcrumb, a left over sitting to decompose on a window sill: still rotting away while the birds chatter and bicker that stale, stinky junk should just be left alone. the fallen learn how to not fall flat on the face, with grime and dirt sprinkled like mascara becomes quite the sight, then clumsy hands reach out to pry that speck from the eyes. the mighty learn how to spin a tale from many knots that become like flowing river going only one way, a dam lifted up with hands going under the table. a bird flew by and made home on the shoulder of a wrecked boat still wandering aimlessly in a stuck up stream unable to find current beneath when dust finally settled. a punch in the stomach, a blow in the face till the mask fell off and a log in the eye became a raft because perfection could not save a drowning, panic stricken fallen one who at times stood tall like a giant in the sky, beneath boots that squashed away dreams - and a stale rotting crumb drifts off into the ocean unable to hold, rein in despair gone wild. who at times chased specks in the wind, the only thing worth running towards - when yearnings could not be quenched, when a bird's chatter took roots, took a mind convinced that the cards were managed by the bereft strength of the winds that cared not either way on how the oceans got tossed to and fro, or whether an aimless wandering found dreams intact. cold heartless brute. lamenting dismayed broken doll rummaging the closet for a better suit, then the glass cut into flesh wincing away, a brute glares back in the mirror menacing and growling while a bird hops about erratically on the twisted misshapen towering beast with pretty eyes, goes for the eyes with the specks and logs, fishes them out because they are seeds of wonders, creation and dreams a bird can most certainly use, a bird has many words to whisper. lo and behold, the empty desert calls to the sea for a baptising, for an awakening of which both can benefit in a handshake not under the table, where dust is brewing once again. and birds they sit on shoulders of giants, on shoulders of the fallen, they have many tales to tell, of dust cloaking vision till only a beast is left thrashing away at enemies made of wind.