There is no obvious escapee in the room.
Everyone is tired and there is One door.
I, nor anyone else has the power to open it.
A wall of weapons. Glint colour bands, swing shoulder to hip.
Scimitars, yataghens, sabres, brassals, jauhars, lions claws, khanjars and kattars.
Draped mail mughal helmets, mamluk ivory blades.
Opposite an oak timeline I see the benefactors.
Black oak weeps about Spain. Brown spaces.
There are white spaces where the gaming pieces once lay.
Somehow she is here with me, wearing a smile & a Iron guard officer's cap
Nothing else. A medal & white socks. The visitors are quiet, turned away.
She woke sometime ago. She is a convert too.
My interaction with her was before she robed.
Her teeth need fixing. Her glasses are near snapped.
I have no need for her wares, prefering shorter pretences, and speech,
Eberhardt, she whispers.
This too will go up in hanging flame.
Oh sweet lord, is this my final day?