Shadow crept into my life one dismal winter’s night
Perverting me with its touch.
They came from the shadows
Formless beings made of hatred,
Of greed.
Without a care they plucked me from my nest
My life
As if I were but a simple pebble from a beach
A memento for their wives.
I was not for their wives, however
But for those of a greater disposition.
Those of antiquated lineage
The founders of our way.
Those with jewels on their fingers,
Flowers in their hair
Perfume floating in the air.
Before long I was swept away
Into a new life of servitude,
One from which there was no escape,
No Sanctuary.
Shackles on my hands,
Lashes on my back
I did their bidding with a smile on my face
To distract me from my pain.
It was no use.
Months floated by
As if my life were but a dream.
The same routine.
Months became years
I was still theirs.
My face still belonged to the back of their hands,
My back to the clap of their whip,
My ribs to the force of their kicks.
No reprieve for a lowlife like me.
I came to accept my life in time.
It was my fault.
The woods were never a place for my kind
The son of a prefect,
The pretty little boy with slaves of his own
Who belonged to him.
Their bodies
Their souls.
Only now do I realise there was no luck involved
In fate’s betrayal of her child
I deserve this
This life of servitude.
By my son: Stephen Francis
