Mon Panache
I knew I cried with Cyrano that day for some reason,
Though he shed only silver swords.
Event had not quite yet met instinct,
Was some primal sense formed before its time,
So I can now turn and appreciate how it finally fits together perfectly,
Oh, the loveliness of a well-suffered, courageous action,
A sacrifice, a selfless and noble deed.
One’s actions define and
Some words are actions, so, Dead,
With the shadow of honor hanging over, like a hide drying over a fence,
Or a jailer’s breath come to swing the noose soothingly,
I savor some one salty tear.