The Assyrian

The Assyrian reeks
Of ill intent
And the nauseating flavor
Of his "vindicated" musk.

A master of deception,
Disguised as a priest.
To any other
There would be no question,
But I,
I know of his abundant wrath,
And the shattered shards
Of his onyx soul,
That fit in the palm of my hand.

As he approaches,
He stares into me,
Probing my need for redemption.
He's disappointed
When he discovers a void
In its stead.

He softens his gaze
And smiles.
How cliche.
I see the murderous motive
Behind his optimism.
He will kill me if he can.

He attacks,
Subtle to observers,
But utterly clear to me.

The others of his kind,
Leave their prey
Beaten and bruised.
But always,
His victims appear unscathed.

That is why
No one understands
My delayed scream,
Heard but disregarded.
They do not see my blood,
For it is shed
Long after the flesh is torn.
They overlook the engraved scars.

I will never be rid
Of the Assyrian who haunts me.
His spears
Are forever embedded in me.

But no one will ever notice
For I will lick my wounds,
Conceal my scars,
Hold my head up high.
For I see the conquest
Soon to come,
The fall
Of his fabricated empire.

I see allies,
Hope,
The ruins of his throne.

My father
Is now
Merely a peasant,
Selling his poisons
By the dozen,
Diminished by his subjugator,
Who bestows hope
In bouquets.