Alchemisland

Small, red-fleshed man sits Napoleon’s shoulder; destiny’s official 

Deigned command an Emperor, his missives success of missions,

Ignore red man red fate endure, corpse of imminent boon grizzily hatcheted

Russian factions lined like Risk troops, dice and action and warm jacketed.

Breakfast chamber his tricorn tipped low, watery mush to the tip of the bowl and health-bestowing fish oils

Mygalomorphs in widow’s skins, cave rank with rotting sheepskins.

The Emperor, symbol of tattered arcana, rolled a mute crystal ball between wristtop and palm

He raised his wrist so the crystal glint was a whisk away from shattered

Then safely back to palm returned it, and again, as if nothing mattered

Breath enough for a dragon’s nose his gelid old commanders

Flocked affront His tent’s flapping entrance awaiting answers

Huzzars and lancers boiled their leathers to swaddle the stinging shoes of horses

Huzzahs fewer this far out, lancing only blisters and surrendering to mustered forces

Mud hardens the tentside where clods by bomb or horsefoot flicked up stayed

Again the ball retreats wrist to palm and holds His calm

Balm to his splintering mind, this Mudras.