Mortal men stumbling 

into unknown spaces 

removing their bloodied coats,

with the dried mudded backs

from resting under the rain.

Spoken to in a foreign language 

as they empty their pockets 

and the torn sacks made of rope.

Letters from their homes, 

empty wet leather wallets, 

pictures of visited places

and small books of rules.

The emptied pockets turned 

inside out like magic tricks

revealing clumps of paper

torn magazine cuttings of 

women and castles afar: 

fiefdoms of personal intrigue.

Trinkets thrown into boxes 

to be burned without recording,

the ashes emptied

then blown into the air 

winding into the unknown.

M Martinez 2019 

mmloctober@gmail.com