The Slave King


As the slow rumble of thunderclouds rolled up to me,
I looked back at the passing storm.
Hand chilly,
Hearts frosty,
The rain; unable to wet my dry chuckle.
If it was not for you, I would long be gone.

As my dead little bonfire provided me no warmth;
Piled up in it-ashes without cinder.
And I yearned for that cozy comfort;
Warmth that ash seeks in embers.

You behind me, I took my seat at that empty coast.
The disfigured, crumbling throne of sand that I was fated to rule.
And like the thundering charge of heavy cavalry
The waves rushed in.
Engulfing me,
The Tsunami, like a merciless, imperial ruler.
Worlds collide, Fate laughs at the travesty.

Through that bottomless depth, I lash out my hand one last time.
Hoping against hope, wishing that you,
Only you,
Would grab me.
When the comic futility of it all hit me again;
The unwavering solitude embraced me sinew.

I was alone.
All along.

As I panted and gasped on the sands of the creek;
Water, retreated; regrouped; like invaders thwarted.
Weary, I looked at the storm that had just left,
And felt the winds of the one that’s yet to arrive.
“They would not rest until I am routed”
I chuckle, the torrent of downpour unable to wet it still.


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