Perfectly formed in the middle of the night.
Not sure what it means, but there it is.
It was made of a perfect victory,
the golden globe held high.
The sword was an essential part, but now it is not.
I cast it aside and think for a second.
Yes, I think for a second.
Was it the victory that was perfectly formed?
I draw my feather, dip it in ink.
I start to write of my perfect victory.