Be savage not average, it
glared from the white board, in
bold red marker!
Yes! And
while succumbing to the pain
of torturous lunges, those
words clamped my attention.
I want that!
I want my idea of a revenge body, where
I emerge from mist with a glinting cross bow, as
fletchings quiver over my shoulder, I am
ripped—pumped, the form of Artemis!
Sore today, and
probably sore tomorrow, another
quote weakly scribbled in blue;
my thighs burn in the brutal
tearing and shredding of muscle, all for
an image of perfectly timed vengeance,
oh, but how sweet it will be
that moment when the
universe aligns, and
in that view, it is the makings of glory
an offering of hope to unrelenting torture.
But search me, and try me
know my thoughts as they morph,
from bones of imagination, with
each primitive motion—strength grows, and
power no longer hungers to rage against a ghost.
Less do I squeeze an image of vengeance into
a final pull or push of weight;
the apparitions of a life ago remain, but
the power of Artemis is in me;
I am savage not average.
