"Mr. Prince, I heard the word
of your return back to the town."
Ever-present saliva
pattered to the ground.
"It's been almost a week
since your travel laid you down.
In that time, I have listened,
I have spread my ears around.
I hear news The Queen is dead;
do I misinterpret sound?
Are the subjects not in mourning?
Does the dirge's drum not pound?
Though the serfs hated queen,
they know that new power abounds,
for every rose that dies,
another rises from the ground."

I sat up in my bed
to face the demon at my door.
"I know well my royal duties,
so what business is that of yours?
Come you to rub it in my face,
you took my heart and so much more?
Does it bring you so much joy
that it's myself I do abhor?
I've lost the only thing
that in this world I do adore.
Unless you come to help,
leave me be, I do implore."

"Quite the opposite, in fact,"
Said the fiend, with a grin.
"I've all the interest in the kingdom
in helping you, my friend.
On your back, you carry burden:
All the roses of your kin,
of your army, of your people,
let its weight not drop your chin,
lest the thorns of leading many
bleed you out 'fore you begin.
Many are the reasons
on which you must depend,
least of all, that sword you wield,
has a nature that is twinned.
You can save or you can slay
the lives of many men.
Do you preserve, or take away
the peace they believe in,
or let the fire have its way
and try for size The Queen's old skin?"

With the men I had at call,
the trip took seven days in all,
through sand and snowfall.

Alone, I don't recall
how much time it took to haul
my battered bones back to the walls
of my castle through the pall.

By the time I had arrived,
I was reduced to near a crawl,
my skin had suffered scald;
the salt of sweat had rubbed it raw.

Recovery in my chambers
gave me time to reflect
on the things that I had seen
in the cavern behind cleft.
Of eleven men departed,
all but three did death collect,
and with permafrost decaying,
I felt a noose around my neck.
Why should I be living
if her life I can't protect?
I lay empty in my bed,
cursing the prospect.
...And on the subject of curses,
why must this one interject,
and present itself as puzzle,
with The Queen as architect?
I wanted to believe
I had sufficient intellect
to untie these convolutions,
all these threads that intersect.
If my love was lost to magic
that The Queen could not deflect,
how am I to change the course
of events I can't affect?
I felt hopeless in my healing.
I felt wounded self-respect.
These were thoughts we grow in weakness,
but in strength we do reject.
…And so in fever and recovery,
I languished in my sweat,
with my guilt and insecurity
to burden retrospect.
When the sickness lessened grip,
and lost the will to infect,
Rumpelstiltskin showed his face,
to gloat, I did suspect.

He came into the place
with a plague of insect.

"Listen, little prince,
for this luck has guaranteed
that you suffer worse a fate
than those you accompany.
I will tell you this now,
to increase your misery:
Your precious wife is not here,
if that is what you seek,
but with your marriage,
and a ring,
the curse's circle is complete.
We suffer this, all of us,
be us king or be us queen.
As the oldest roses wilt,
we must test the newest green.
We must cull the sickly buds
to strengthen our sovereignty,
which is why you must die,
slowly and horribly.
Her love for you is weakness.
You have taken her from me.
You have sullied up the path
I had paved for progeny.
Now the curse will **** you both,
I its agent, happily."

As The Queen relished joy
in confessing her misdeeds,
the men became alert,
and regained identity.
They gathered up, left unnoticed
by the eyes of royalty,
‘till The Queen had ended speech,
then they sprang suddenly.
Small they were, and weak at best,
but even in infirmity,
the seven men were strong enough
to give my blade an opening.

There was no hesitation:
No fatal laxity.
I plunged my sword into the heart
of my kingdom's worst disease.
She died, spitting thorns,
never knowing amity.

I spent the day with the men,
and with much solemnity,
I buried the evil queen,
and one by one,
my company.

So a curse upon my men
had made them monsters be...
Simply being in my party
had condemned them for their deeds.
"Why did you hex them, witch,
and think to spare me?
It seems foolish in your place
to spare a helpless enemy.
You could have murdered me instead,
and spared me all this speech."

She replied after a laugh,
filled with sadistic glee:
"Oh, I wanted to include you,
on that we both agree,
for you and princess both
can challenge my royalty.
But it seems you have a ward
that I did not foresee;
the sins within your heart,
even small in their degree,
should have shown upon your skin,
like your men, accordingly."

The sins within my heart...
I'm no saint, and I could see
Rumpelstiltskin saved my life
when he took the heart from me.

Ashes fell, still,
amidst conspiracy.

At first she looked appalled,
then her features rearranged.
The face of my devoted
took an heir of the deranged.
As was seen in the reflection
of the armor's mirrored pane,
the queen stood before me:
The epitome of insane.

I looked toward the sky,
to see the stars were merely flame,
and the snow that fell was ash
inside the mountain without name.

"What is wrong, little prince?
Your features, they look worn!
...From a trek across the desert?
Is that why so forlorn?
So easily fatigued,
you wave at me that little thorn?
I hope you brought an army!
Go ahead, blow your horn,
or are you daft in your distress?
Do you solo face my scorn?"
The sword in my hand
shook in quakes, anger-born.
"You see the creatures there?
They will die before the morn,
but do you care for your own men?
Do you not even mourn?
Do you uphold your bargain?
Slay the beast as forsworn?"
As she spoke, her features shifted.
The seer was in her form!

"That is right, little prince:
I am the fire, AND the storm."

I remember when the world had more vivid colors than it does now.
When my mother was twice as tall as I was.
When kickball lasted until the streetlights came on
or until someone ran into the tree that we used as home plate
and no one could talk them out of going home.

Sometimes we would come home to sticky buns.

Warm bread and sticky glaze made for a maple-flavored mess,
spread across the face and hands of four children.
ALL dirt sticks to children who have just eaten sticky buns.

Dirt or not, I remember the way we looked forward to them.
I also remember the look on my mother's face
every time she made them, as if burdened by a weight
that children were not aware of.

Many years later, I know how they're made.
A simple recipe, made for children's taste:
pre-made biscuits (from the cans that explode)
cooked until golden, then drizzled with maple syrup
and left to bake for just a few-  more-       minutes.

The perfect blast of sugar for energy-wasting children.

Such a simple recipe was surely born in desperation.
In retrospect, I know that look upon my mother's face as pain:
once, in lieu of dinner, she poured syrup over biscuits.
To cook the only food we had.

Every time we called for sticky buns,
she was reminded of our poverty.

Yet still she obliged,
cooking up sticky buns for her kids,
who knew not what poverty meant,
yet were formed under its rule
with sticky hands and ***** faces.

Something That We're Not

It isn't with a bang,
a pop, a pow, or a whimper.
It's with a look.
It's with a word.
It's the result of someone's temper.

Over time, splendor fails
and the boiling *** simmers.
In the end we're left to wonder
if there's ever really a winner.

What was great,
was only great,
and all out history is not.

And all the hate,
was only hate,
and so we weigh what might be lost.

Yet we stay,
and try to make
what we are, something we're not.

And the days,
they grow long
with our intentions ill-begot.