Second Movement

Ten years ago I didn't even know your name. Today, I remember your snapped exhale as I pinned you to your ridiculously-soft bulkhead. The coiled tension of your body remains disconcertingly potent. It lingers, like your phantom scent and your absurd ideals.

I believed you tamed. Not even close. Well played, indeed.

I warned you I had more in common with your ancient soldiers than your philosophers. My invasion force is massive. Mahler will effect an appropriate greeting hail. I regret that I won't see your face when you first hear it.

I imagine you'll be pleased to see me.