PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My heart stops beating

as I kneel and drop the scepter

at his feet

Arrows lead me to the floodlights

I’m dragged from the center of my chest

by something beyond my control

The man on the throne

tosses his frozen conscience into a

pot of gold

and gives me a snarling smile,

his icy silver irises rimmed with gold

I’m too exposed here,

my eyes squeezed shut

I can’t take the poison

seeping from the winter-packed soil

This gift is

33% of a cure

even these needles can’t

save him from himself

I have brought him

just what he wanted

No one can bring him

what he needs,

the real remedy

His vision is blurred by

the pearls that pave his eyelids

He still draws lines in the sand,

with the heartless weight on his heels

and his head in the clouds

maybe he shouldn’t be drawing lines at all.

But no, I should keep my mouth shut

I’m just the messenger

all I have to do is stare straight ahead

at the uncomfortable throne

he’s chosen for himself

After all, maybe he

likes when it digs sharply into his spine

and splits open past wounds

just to heal them again

and leaves holes in his shoes

He can always just tear off some gold and buy new ones.

I press 33% of a remedy

into the pristine poisoned ground

The scepter pierces his skin

but not his heart.