Victory, March.

Instruction from above, this omni-present radiance of accomplishment buzzes with gratitude.  The hungry shell of what remains, drained of all but the stubborn skeletal fragments, stands shakily on triumphant ground. Battered but unbroken, the psyche bleeds from the contusion of inspiration.  The blood spilled as an offering pools below the altar of the self.  Torches cast shadows of doubt over the blessing, but they burn away on approach.  This child born of war and anguish, rests upon the throne, sleeping, dreaming of the day when he shall be king.