Our General
Retires
Having won enough
Wars and battles.
He tells his story
To himself.
A tale wherein
Bitter defeats
Are finite,
The maimed
Are healed,
Intrepid rage
Is forgotten,
The ends
Are balanced.
The journalist,
Or
The historian
Counterclaims,
Questioning
Each triumph
With addendums,
Demanding
The fullest accounting,
Asking
That trophies
Be returned.
Captain of his legacy,
Commander of his takeaways,
Our General
Sips cocktails
In the darkening night,
Reruns the newsreels,
Marshals the wingmen,
Rallies the loyalists.
Parsifal
Retains the sacred spear,
Recounts his wanderings.
He has no need for Gurnemanz
To tell his story
To himself.
