The Quest

Free Verse ReVolution

They called me
stranger in
a strange
land, of
foreign accent and more
curious syntax,

emblems on
my jacket arm not
immediately
recognized.

I was poised to
die beside them but never
liked much by
their ilk,
patchwork leather to
their fancy silks,

barely initiated within
their ranks.

I was called
outsider, night
rider, queer as a
seasoned liar with
spitfire tongue that
knows not thanks
when their legion
of eyes meet
mine.

But they hand
me an artifact made
as much from
sand as
glass

(worth as
much as gold and
little as an
empty flasks during
feast),

request I risk
myself for them.

“You have a certain darkness, a shallow cunning,” they said,
“and the lot of us are cowards with
every reason not to go.”

“But how do you know,” I asked, “someone’s not waiting for
me back at home, wondering if I might
return?”

“Because you…

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