Three Hours after Midnight

The Chameleon twirls the kiak paddle
with the lightning fluency
that mesmerized and terrorized his would be killers.
His skin is a scarred blank canvas,
more alive with stories than acres of ink festivals;
his expression as inscrutable
as the quintessential poker player’s.

The storm gives chase.
The Rebel Chameleon heads for the beach,
with the boldness of the surf life saver
he was during a less abominable era.
In the blackness of an obscure cave,
he buries his craft in a shallow grave.

From vantage points above his mentors crypt,
snipers wait to fill his.
Krakatoa like fury dances across his features
and vanishes as abruptly as the lightning.
He postpones his pilgrimage once more.

Twenty four hours later he sits in a back street pub,
as anonymous as the cockroaches on the footpath;
enthralled by television news reports
of his acolytes marching against malignant greed.
There isn’t enough bullets to shoot them all.

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