Mask of Agamemnon

Vainglorious, proud, out to avenge a sacred wrong,
With every assurance from kith and kin
That his action was not only noble but holy,
He boarded the machine burdened with death.

Within his trojan horse, he came upon their masses.
At his signal, fiery mayhem burst forth,
And, in an instant, all was laid to waste, he as well.
Heads, arms, legs, and trunks, strewn about in chunks.

His death mask is frightening and frightened, ever shocked,
His lips apart as though he died surprised.
The eyes are missing, the lids as well; empty visage,
Not of bronze, but tan, yet untanned, leather.

The explosives in the back seat went off with such force,
That even as the man's skull came apart,
The blast separated the thicker skin of the face
And flung it through the then missing windshield.

Onward and upward, it flew like a gruesome frisbee,
And then fluttered down near the engine block,
Where it was duly retrieved and stored as evidence.
Thus he ended: nameless, but not faceless.