Ointment

A prick upon the face, a tingling in lips, that you opt to leave alone,

As if it will simply decide to pardon you, more likely a revolution will unfold,

The itch will, subtly survey each option and approach, formulate a plot and plan

Locate a place, a point of attack, forcing movement forward, analyzing each step of the phase,

A mapped out resolution, built upon silent operation and surprise attacks,

Upon the suns first ray the itch has disappeared,

And in its place a monument has been raised, announcing conquest to all who notice,

At first you do nothing, in fact you may not even notice,

But this tiny speck shall soon grow,

A blemish all hard and red, you cannot counter its attack,

Not now, much too soon, you cannot attack when your violator has yet to show his head,

As time moves at snail-like speed, your mind works in the weirdest ways,

Paranoia creeps within, blinding rationality with a cloud of vanity and superficial rhyme,

You shall not be overtaken, not by such an insolent,

A renegade, a coward who refuses to unmask himself before my mirrored eye,

 You are the host, you reaffirm your beliefs and speak your mantras loud in the air,

To allow something so trivial to overwhelm and dominate you, that is something you need to overcome

So on sound advice you return that afternoon, bag in hand you run to your room,

You have looked outside the self, a mercenary under your control,

And so the payment transacted, this wicked warrior is not one to mince his words, instead he dives into the terrain unannounced and begins a bloody attack,

With the swelling subsided in most part, you take in a sigh of accomplishment, rotating between smile and grin.

All is well but tomorrow another blemish this way could so come, resist the urge to pick and gouge, for a mercenary does what it does before any damage is truly done not, no guarantees when interference was improperly run.