Daggers at Dawn

Daggers At Dawn

“Daggers at Dawn” was the cry of the hour if not the day. Nay Centuries struggle by with nobody brave enough to answer the call, swinging from the mountaintop, which shuddered over the village. A creature as black as midnight swamp and twice as damp screeching into the winds that circumbembulate down the mount and through the crevices of the village. The fires that burned in the hearths of man and family, they look out into that darkness, peril in their eyes and clenching of their loins. Who to take up this cry and rid the township of a monster, while creating a hero: whoever dared the trek up that circular hill, to brave wind, rain, sleet, snow, hail, as well as the unfortunate monster. Who lay, baring his teeth, daring, watching, threatening anybody who looked twice anybody with apples in their teeth and the wind at their feet who dare beat the Sun into submission and soar through the expectations of a village and into the Monster’s deepest, darkest nightmare, which started when he was a lad. A lad for all seasons, but not stopping at one in particular, but fighting through the ambrosiatic feeling that one gets from too much shelter and not enough entertainment, through too much faun and not enough fauna. Oh, the nights are long with the beast, the burden, the cry, the scream, the taunting, the lonely! This is where we find the beast yelling to the sky, beating his many arms against each other, tears welling up in his many eyes, Oh the glory of lonely! A young man, no wife, no kids, no family, no friends, no enemies, no contemporaries; just his two hands and his mane. His glorious mane! He had nothing to win, lose, tie, untie, beg, bag, O but his mane! He stroked it thoroughly as the screech “Daggers at Dawn” emanated down the barren hills and right into the man’s soul, which wasn’t there. A long walk, but a fruitful one. He took a bag, which had one instrument: a dagger upon his weary body. He stroked it when the Sun went down and the Moon partially veiled in a foggy solace to what he couldn’t come back to. To what he couldn’t come back to. This march, this death march, this life march, this melancholic call to strangers who knew not his name, never mind his mane! He dangled his cane over the edge of the precipice and tottle went his head. Who to find over on this laborious journey? Who to fling upon his sharp utensil? The beast lay in a prone position, eyes still moist, hands linked together covering his knees, rocking slowly back and forth. All his pupils made the slow trip from nothing to Man, who stood there, blankly, blinking, tongue licks dry lips…