The King-Slayer
Who am I? Define my image.
What has been etched on the walls
of my soul? A beautiful corsage,
though life springs forth as it falls
on the wrist of a beloved,
is dying. So what facade
is my image revealing?
Doth my heart resolve to seek what is dying?
to betray myself with fear,
to give into this esteem so blinding,
do I align my fate with that of Lear?
Shall I force away my one pure love
to boost my pride, to find foundation,
and become blind to the devils masked as doves,
until betrayed, I am entirely alone again?
Shall my hair be cut, or sanity lost
whilst in this sea of troubles
I'm turned and tossed?
For the strongest kings betrayed themselves,
for a love they would never find
If they should fall, then to what Hell
should my soul be lost and bind.
Snakeskin
The skins of my path hath been shed.
They lie intact, though they lie behind
the skin is dead, what's said is said,
yet to look upon it, I'm still inclined.
Like the serpent leaves his common case
to freely move with a fresh exterior
his prints are left and you can trace
the scars and marks that he once bore.
So the dead skins of our past do reveal
the mistakes and pain we've left behind.
It speaks truths about us, and though we've healed
Our fingers trace the jagged lines.
Our fingers trace the jagged lines.
ReplyDeleteYou are a poet. Were you always?
In my womb, did you cry out a frustration for what lie ahead? Son of my youth, now man in my home.
I try, but words fail.