Hector has fallen
and neither love of home or Troy
or family
has saved him.
Hector, for whom to stand tall was
needful defiance imbued with virtue and
has fallen,
steeped in his love and principles,
yet nonetheless abandoned
on the sands of Troy, on the sands of
by gods and by graces,
by the Fates,
and dragged about by threaded heels
in cycles of mockery.
A good man, whose blood quickened
only in defense of family,
has fallen,
and now Empty Pride pulls at
relentless reins
while in ruthless aspect,
grim visage beneath plumed helm
and teeth gritting in bestial spite
to drag Hector’s dignity
around that which he loved
and died for;
fallen and demeaned by the
chosen son
whom the Fates blessed unjustly
to echo through eons
in infamy.
Hector has fallen.
He fought for brother and wife,
for son and father and home,
for all things worthwhile;
he fought for goodness itself
and yet he has fallen
to he who fought
for sake of pride and echoes and
for wrath,
to write with the blood of goodness
on the black shores of Styx
to comfort his hollow shade
in the huddled darkness of
Hector has fallen,
so why should I,
of frailer make,
ever hope to aspire beyond the
of the fickle Fates?
There is nought but blood
and sweat
and tears
cycling around that which we love
as we dissolve into the
of the forgetful sands.
Hector has fallen,
and a Prideful Shade stands triumphant
for a time
above him,
yet will fall beneath him
as a shadow thinned
beneath the glorious sun
cradled in the ruins of Troy.
Hector has fallen,
and so too shall we all,
whatever indignities await us.

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