His eyes wore the red of tears
wept, kept hidden from all
sight and sound to fester in
the darker crevices of his
crown. But now it’s spilled on
the ground in a puddle like
fresh blood from opened veins.

And now, with all those pounds
off his shoulders and the boulder
stuck in his throat now swallowed,
he makes the promise to sing
his own song, to write his own
lyrics and bear with any rebellion
to his rule. His rule over himself.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow