A Kingdom for a Slave

On the road, and
at the middle;
he faces life,
its code, its riddle.

He sits to listen,
he stands for days;
he cries for meaning,
but seldom prays.

“Another end,
another fate;
and what, ensue,
before me should await?”

An end for an act;
an act for a will;
a will for a way, yet
still a child, he stays.

“For each beginning,
another to juggle;
how can I be good, for
doing good is such a struggle.”

Birthed for a dream,
but destroyed in his teens,
with empty extremes,
turned broken and obscene.

Tossed into life
in a stunted stunt;
both dull and blunt,
a lost man on the hunt.

Only now, he recalls
the use of abandon;
each time, for dead, or early
for a drop on the head.

Stress for hardship,
again, displeased,
to work on “nothing,” for
nothing works with ease.

“For one to go the final distance,
one must face a challenge unassisted;”
he moves to prove
but fails at even his very existence.

“So here I face my former self,
both fat and gaunt, my taunts
brought a turn of the tide;
I lost all support, far and wide.”

Perhaps even a lie, his timidity;
for what, but in lust,
his foolishness brought about
a new invalidity.

A clash of doubt, restrained;
deprived of life, but sane.
Released and free,
mentally — ha, “never the same.”

To engross, but never occupy,
as if to build in a cave;
these walls, they hold one, alone,
a kingdom for a slave.

A castle, a fortress,
a prison with horses;
a place of long rest,
a bunker for porcelain.

He could be strong,
he could’ve been agile;
reserved for long, for granted,
his achievement: making “fragile.”

Quick to dodge
the pitfalls, the life;
if he were normal,
by now he’d have a wife.

So all who’d dare
here, cross or enter,
would be surprised,
find an epicenter.

Neither gold nor jewels,
but a load of traps;
from parts unknown,
he lives off scraps.

Until it remains
’the world to see:
the denial of allies,
even the denial of “me.”

Of what was left,
his tired veins,
his reality severed,
his demented reins?

What future has he,
as darkness beclouds,
his solace in solitude,
his desolation in a crowd?

What value has he, living,
that death makes us proud;
in a life most abortive,
made, a face for a shroud.

Like tempered glass,
his mind has strength;
but partly clear,
and still, we fear.

With pressure, he’s scattered;
in due time, he shatters,
he divides ’to the floor,
he holds his breath… no more.


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