A KING’S LAMENT

A KING’S LAMENT, by Audrey Elmerson

 

I am accosted by the past,

a pain I can’t erase.

Each time I look into a glass

and see my haggard face

 

the cheeks and nose remind me of

my father’s cruel laugh,

the menacing tones when he declared

the outcome of his wrath.

 

And when I hear my name combined

with ‘King’, when subjects bow,

I only hear spectators cheer,

my father’s bitter vow.

 

Then once again I stand within

the ring of sporting death

where all my brothers I must fight

until not one draws breath.

 

My eldest brother wore a grin –

it was always held high.

He had no shame, no fear, no guilt,

no dare he would not try.

 

He laughed despite the circumstance

and swung his sword with bliss,

for he’d determined long ago

that here his sword would miss.

 

My careless sword caught on his brow,

and blood dripped down his chin,

yet when he sank into the ground,

he never lost his grin.

 

My second brother slit his eyes

at me across the field.

Abandoning his younger foe,

he sought to make me yield.

 

He’d always been impervious,

with books his only friends;

he took whatever caught his eye

and rarely made amends.

 

But now his eyes were firelight,

accusing me of sin,

of breaking unsaid promises –

that we’d not kill our kin.

 

I slid my sword out of his neck.

His head flopped to the side.

His eyes were speechless, lost within

a muddy, bloody tide.

 

My youngest brother who had fought

the second in a sham,

now stepped to me with twisted mouth –

my soul he sought to damn.

 

The frequent words of honeyed lust

for lovers in his thrall

were gone, leaving his bitter breath,

a dark and poisoned pall.

 

His curse left no impression on

my mind, nor on my sword,

and though he swore that by his blade

my fate would be restored,

 

my metal pierced his gut with ease

before it twisted out.

He folded up with just a groan –

a murmur, not a shout.

 

The memory has never left –

my brothers bleeding dry,

the heavy gold upon my brow,

the tears I could not cry –

 

for every time I see myself,

I see them in my eyes.

I see them in my nose and mouth –

those tiny severed ties

 

that I can never quite escape,

that I cannot destroy,

reminders of my bloody hands,

my father’s twisted ploy.

 

But if I stood upon that field

and faced it all again –

the proclamation to anoint

the one who killed his kin,

 

my brothers bravely striding out,

their knuckles white with fear,

the screaming crowds, the muddy ground –

my mind would be more clear.

 

I would not hesitate as much,

For I’d remember this:

unending guilt is constant death

and death itself is bliss.

 

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Audrey Elmerson lives in Maryland, dreams of the Pacific, and writes poetry, fiction, and code. Audrey has been telling stories since she could talk, and recording them since she could write