Lo! Pangs return without warning to catch the prey unprepared.
As the sly serpent uncoils, slithering skirmishes precede the war.
From whence it hails, a wicked world of mucosal morass.
Who is accountable for summoning the latent beast?
Does entombed pathogen elicit futile efforts at extirpation?
Or is innate self-loathing manifest as immune civil war?
Only sibilant borborygmi augur the impending fury; No herald trumpets here.
With nociceptors ablaze, the day is greeted de rigueur.
Only a temper shortened, or humor less effusive, belie the raging conflict within.
The armory holds arrows bent and archaic rapiers dulled by time.
Warriors so woefully equipped do not beard the beast this day.
With no option for retreat, compromise and concession rule.
Meals less succulent and agendas abridged are offered in peace.
Less pain accepted as reconciliation to draw an armistice nigh.
The yardstick shortened.
Suddenly, without warning, the wicked writhing abates.
Whether from pharmacopeia or desperate incantation, the dragon grows weary.
Passion ebbing, claws retract, and under peristaltic cover it retreats.
A colicky yawn the only clue of where it waits in interictal torpor.
Cautious probing draws no response. A hesitant normalcy eases into place.
Recurrent taunts of a peace indefinite weigh heavily.
A familiar path pocked by previous false promissory truces.