For the gods have always had a sense of humor.
The idea of warrior poets was so amusing that only was their a brief appearance of them.
Mortally wounding a mortal with a metaphor had of course, little to do with vanity.
It was all about differentially making a odd little calculus deceiptherabe into a linguistic phantasm.
Math and litriture as one, into a more horrible beast than meer juxtopostion into the blue metaphor that would come from a cloudless sky, say.
Laughthing at this passion play beyond the want of any, made to only be understandable in little bits like a puzle looked upon from far off.
The warroir poets bleed sinking red dusty soil out of old veins that manticores have once sleign.
The Enigma Garden 