Father I – The Art of Regicide

Tiny hands learn no piety

in this unmerciful piece of land.

 

Godliness smells like lacquered wood

as Master (and foe) waits on the other side.

Doubtful and grumpy, I slide down the chair

and ask my men for advice:

 

Maybe Milady has more to offer

than an cryptic ivory smile.

A shiny dagger under silk sleeve,

or poison on lips that cry for crime.

 

“Crawl silently when moon is absent.

Kill gently before the day starts.

Vanish in the shadow, clean your body.

Don’t tell anyone you’ve gone this far”.

 

“I will be at your service,” she answered,

“as long as you keep this secret of mine.”

 

 

A daring beast with his bold rider

impatiently begins to prance.

Over the wall, the fence, the barrier,

breathing deep to take the chance.

 

They shone under this pale March sun

that saw my birth and encourages air

to vibe lively among the tender leaves

and draw man and horse in his purple glare.

 

(Master spoke in eloquent silence,

“be under shelter before last evening lights.”)

 

 

A monochrome cleric knocked on my door

and asked me to soak in tasty wine.

I just kissed his seal and let him go,

without questions, or guilt, or pride.

 

Master warned, “Don’t ever let them enter

or you’ll get more than wrists with scars.”

Prophetess of Nothing, but don’t get me wrong,

I’m not nude denial like the way you are.

 

(I just tried to escape from your diagonals

and shiver freely over these broken skies).

 

 

Back to Earth, for the meantime,

I looked down at wood and stone.

“Solidly built, everlasting,” said Master,

“are you disciplined enough for a throne?”

 

Behind the battlements an archer

tensed his bow in cold despair.

When the gelid steel embraced his entrails

he hardly opened his grin and said:

 

“You’re a great chronicler, my lady, but

will you ever do more than watch us die?”

 

 

Tiny hearts hold no patience

So I did spit thunder and thorn.

“The art of regicide,” assured my last soldier,

“needs far more than electric force.”

 

“You are boundless enough to surrender,

sacrifice me to your gods, flames or flood.

But, if you manage to make it worthwhile,

I will be glad to shed my blood.”

 

(We both died with honor,

like the last time, and the time before.

 

Master said nothing, just did smile.

I would swear that he was proud.)

chess art of regicide poem cross the void

*(One poem accepted, another one declined. So far)

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