Confessions of A Reluctant Spy

I am a warrior poet doing op's

for a vast army hidden

in the bunker of obscurity;

cover lives so meek and mild,

they would never be suspected of having

an AK47 buried in the garage.

Life and death in my hands every damn day.

Every mistake a bloody mess,

assassins for all the sides seem everywhere.

I am confused by the NEED TO KNOW policies of both God and man.

In my cover life

I am surrounded by neutered's

who take a smug pride in being slaves.

My enemies tried to defeat me without martyring my flesh,

left me bloody and broke and half mad . . .

silently contenting myself with the knowledge

I would one day issue their death sentences.

The oligarchies media tries to control the narrative

of the revolution,

yet I lived to write

tombstones

for the unmarked mass graves

that took our comrades

without so much as a news story about missing college kids.

Never meant to have this bloody life.

Never wanted anything more than a simple love,

simple words,

simple ways.

They stole me from my life,

brought out the wrath

created a war hardened beast

who they could no longer control.

I have been mistaken for many things

since the revolution began

my enemies have tried to demonize me

for challenging an oligarchy

stealing every last drop of oil and . . . on the planet:

some saw me only as a mirror,

an alien,

a communist,

republican,

peace nik,

war monger,

villain,

hero;

happens when the media,

can take a split second of a life

and say it rep's all the other years.

I am enough Nietzschean enough

to allow neither pain nor praise

any effect on the one who stands always in solitude,

surrounded by discarded by the masks

I wear for all others;

I see fresh blood on a monstrous visage glistening in the light,

another a benign reflection

of my smile

for a child.