A group of warriors bound
in two dimensions,
built out of paint, all sat
in a circle cleaning their swords
on the roadside.
A man walked alongside
a cart pulled by a donkey
whose hair was falling out.
Two young women rode
in the back dangling their feet
above the trail.
They looked at the victors,
with their studious devotion
to the upkeep of their steel,
and couldn’t help but feel like
there was more out past hills
than they were promised.
While being careful to be silent
they hopped off the battered wheels,
and then walked over to where
the crusted blood was fading.
They asked them what they killed
that day, and the killers all just looked
away, but the girls wouldn’t leave
so they drew it for them in the dirt.
Teleporting Typewriter 