The Rain King

Who dares disturb my sleep?
I the king of millions
Deserve sleep.

I have fought Gaul, driven out the
Huns, made peace with the
Celts and even

Called to the God, the god of worlds
Ancient as myself, to consecrate
My life’s work,

Lend it credence, do anything to silence
The doubters and their doubt.
I have bribed

Maidens the world over, gave them
Presents of myrrh and alabaster,
Dressed them in

Damasked silk, decked them with gold
Necklaces while the queen my wife
Fumes in the

Corner wearing the threadbare gown
A wedding gift a decade old.
She is ugly

Like a fisherman’s wife. She is old.
This is what you get for
Marrying

A brute. But she can’t tell this to me
Now. She had lost her voice
When she first

Heard the court’s laughter, the laughter
Of princes and princesses come
To us every night

To dine for free, dancing, depleting our
Store of mead. She’s in the kitchen
With her own court

Of big-boned broad-shouldered peasant
Wives, damsels in their own
Right, who cooked

The venison to-night a bit too raw for
My stomach. I am suffering from
Indigestion,

From a life’s worth of heartaches, from
My age, my sins, my own life. I am
Suffering

From my own life. I am old.
I suffocate at this
Knowledge.

The blood spilled of enemies in a
Hundred deserted lands
Gather together

To drown me. I follow myself like a ghost
Everywhere. Those fools deserved
To die.

I am haunted by my own ghost. I am
Old. I am old. Life has escaped me.
I am pale.

I am lifeless. I am lost. I am a ghost
Myself. My pale face is bloodless.
In my veins flow

The black waters of Lethe.

17 March 2016

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s