Not for Glory.

Placed, positioned, posed.
Motions swirl to dance, a wildness in every move.
Passion in one's preparation
given the story of one's aspiration.
A moment of liberation, a windswept borderline.
Having crossed the desert, bleak and bare
time more limited in scope, in the ecstasy of fibs.
However quite likely for rejection, one contemplates a range of fates,
even when one knows the final score.
Guilt is said to be the trademark of humiliation,
frozen in a scream that is never heard.
The stage is set, adorned with some strange beauty.
It is known, after all isn't it burnt into the flesh of memory?
As time steals the time away.
Part witness and part conqueror, the past does not depart.
Part victim and part comforter, exotic, erotic, excessively impressed.
Each minute is more vital than it seems
vested in a vague peculiar momentous mission.