When I rise and rinse off sin
I fancy myself a Prince.
Although since coming up over the mountains,
my words seem minced. Pummeled in the gut,
limp limping from rut to rut.

Collapsing on the side shoulder. I
lay splayed. Maybe my head is cut,
But
this fight is far from over.
Chest held high held tight, I call myself a soldier
fighting against growing older.

I wince, filtering through blurred stories that are my fables,
fate's hand grips holding stable,
picking me up by and by and off of the shoulder.