Youth

A man reflects on the things he's lost.

Son, heir of my dynasty.

Crown adorned with soot.

Falling, right into your lashes.

She takes you, coddles you.

Maybe you coo, or cough.

Maybe your hand seizes.

Maybe you are her Sun.

But I look at you.

Then at all the heirs.

And my mind returns to her.

Wild, and windy.

In the fresh flowers.

A springtime of youth.

Her laughter piercing.

I look down at my hands.

Calloused.

Kingly.

Mine.

The palace, gilded.

My throne bejeweled.

The flowers are with her.

In the field of poppies.

Dandelions.

Lilacs.

Barren, my soul.

Spirited away with her.

Cup overflowing, cold.

Wine as antidote,

Reflected as the moon.

How could her womb...

Make such a blight?

You took her from me.

You bastard.