There's Grace in All God's Creations

He stands as if uncertain, that ornate ballerina
awkwardly clad in flak jacket and tights.
Lifts one arm to hail the other end
of what now passes for his world.
The zebra demigods
(who, though omnipotent on this plane,
still abide by higher laws)
signal their assent.

The flak-jacketed ballerina lowers his hand
and looks about his comrades.
They ready to charge
though no battle cry is issued;
the fickle many-headed beast fringing his world
takes care of that.
Whipped to a blood frenzy, its heads cry out
sixty thousand strong for the inevitable crush.

Our protagonist returns his gaze to the rock.
His livelihood depends on this move,
this one he has been trained his entire life for.
What an odd-shaped thing,
perched precariously like an egg on end...
The ballerina begins the charge.

Slow at first, then gaining steam,
the ragtag band moves forth,
downhill towards the enemy.
It was not always about killing:
once upon a time, the battle was a graceful thing.
But now the intent is fatal
to sate men's egos
and of course that many-headed beast
with its Roman blood-lust.
The fickle creature roars its approval.

The ballerina keeps his eye on the prize
as he tiptoes toward it. Faster and faster,
closer and closer, then smooth and fluid
plants the left foot
and swings the right,
air-mailing the most prized possession
to the enemy's rear guard.

The force of his own pirouette
arcs his leg to meet his face;
the shock runs through his body
as muscles recover from their own violence.
He flops awkwardly back to human angles,
watching his airborne handiwork,
this battle begun, his part complete.

And his comrades race downhill
with the killing lust in their eyes,
clad in their gaily-colored livery.
And the fickle beast roars above it all.