Talos

Bronzed and beautiful,

sleeping like a baby;

your stance in eternal preparation

for the battle beneath.

A coma of the toes,

you are rudely awakened

by cramp

and a handsome hands on thief

rifling through your tomb.

You turn your stiffened neck,

frowning in confusion

and cold, avenging anger.

Your one vein heats up,

hotter than the Sardinians

placed in a sardine tin

of your boiled embrace.

He notices you

and the terror that graces his face

is in respect to your raw brawn

that brandishes itself

on your taut, iron body.

All you wanted was a decent nights kip

and instead you are forced

to attack these argonauts of arrogance.

They run,

ants racing for shelter and escape.

You defend your home,

your belongings

and your honour

as you smite them with rocks

that rip through skin and bone.

You stand alone.

One brave, bronzed soldier

with a chip on his shoulder

and a bolt on his boot:

A slowly smoting bolt from Zeus,

rusting from the fire of his faith

that your destiny is his.

The man with one sandal

sneaks behind you,

with no need to stab you in the back

when he can go for the jugular of your ankle.

The cork pops

and out spurts the bubbles of your life force.

The metallic in your mouth

is the dried rusted blood of your demise.

You roar, you fall, you die;

and for Talos no man cries.