My coup count is small, but I still try and walk tall, in this land that has become so undone.
Enemies have plied me with chemical warfare, slander, false flags, rescinded loyalty, mocking disregard and brutal coldness.
I have wandered confused, hopeful, pleading and alone.
There has been no safe harbor.
No war party has ever gathered to me.
Turned out of familial lands.
Three times sold into slavery.
My life at times nothing more that slim wisps of logic. Most often blind and feeble and foolish.
My mind taken up with magical thinking, superstition, day dreams and novelty.
Decades wasted in confusion.
Delusional and detrimental.
Determined and disabused.
Now, all that is left is to count coin, protect my last remaining shreds of sanity.
Hold fast to the belief that I have made it this far and might make it to a peaceful death.
I have been poked, prodded, maligned and left for dead.
But I still rise and set with the sun.
Three months and one chemical arsenal has been removed from my tormentors stockpile.
I walk the concentration camp grounds now at least 3 times a week.
Have secured medicinals to improve my vitality.
My coup count is at one for a Pig in a Dragon year.
To be more auspicious, I will wear yellow, and decorate with blue.
Time moves swiftly, but it is still just but March.
