Fennel Shaker

Tyrant stands,
Tall
Armor gleaming
Sturdy muscles
Heavy armor
Readies his spear

Sleepy, stretching
Eyes half-closed
Fennel-shaker yawns
Stands on unsteady feet
Rubs his head
Straightens up
Sets his thyrsos down

“You?” Scoffs the tyrant
Eyeing a soft, unmuscled body
“What are you going to do?”

“What I always do,” says Dionysos
“So you know.
Now might be a good time
To run.”

Haughty laughter
Crashes
Like a freight train
They lift their head and ululate
A howl that strips the cedars
A cry felt in the bones

Silence.
Then thunder.
As We come.

Tyrant
Authored his own death:
The backs
The arms
Of those who carried him
Grew strong
Hearts heavy
With fuel for the fire
Tyrant
Relied on their strength

One shout.
The downtrodden go wild with fury.
One cry.
The servants revolt.
One howl.
The freaks and outcasts awaken.
The fire is lit
With fuel to burn a whole generation.

Hand slithers over hand
Arms like snakes, writhing
The Tyrant is covered
Over the ground
Runs a river of red

Still lazy
Still sleepy
Shaking unshorn head
They wonder
Why it always ends in blood.

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