the fall
Nike hesitates to cross the street
her hand held out in mid-air
just above ground zero
as if to stop traffic
tanks rumble past
the ground trembles
her wings coated in ash
she resembles a statue to an old hero
she cannot compare
her ears fill with static
a laurel wreath in tatters at her feet
Ares with no regrets
is smoking a cigarette
and leaning against a lamppost
on the other side of defeat
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