Panache.
 
            A log.
            Not a befitting end for the Gascony cadet
            The man ruminates, reading off the gazette
            His love sits a mere meter away
            So close, yet so far from his gaze
 
            The demons multiply around his bench
            Sneering and laughing at the misfortune he faced
            A lifetime of adventure shackled by insecurity
            The unfortunate byproduct of an aesthetic abnormality
 
            His head weeps now with scarlet tears
            Release of an agony pent up for years
            The ghost of a lover passes by
            A callback, to a simpler time
 
            His time approaches nearer now,
            The man’s friends all around
            A duel for the ages, the spectators unannounced
            The sword is drawn and the stance is taken,
            A fight in vain yet more the brazen
           
            As his soul dies out, his spirit burns stronger,
            The faltering steps mimic those of a dozer
            A theatre night long ago, his skirmish a vivid closer
            The kisses of a girl rain upon him.
 
            “Roxane,” he breathes,
            An anchor to a sinking ship
            His thoughts convalesce from the Ichor drip
            That is his love, his romance awakened
            Yet too late now, as his fortune dwindles
 
            “He wins,” he declaims          
            To the victor go the spoils,
            Affection, praise, empty fodder,
            The rose, the laurel, the whole world be damned.
           
            Yet there is one thing that persists,
            His sole white plume that flies on life’s highest honor
            The world dims, the sky awash
            One last breath in, and out, “My… panache.”