A different kind of Warmth

A different kind of Warmth

With one hand in your pocket, it’s never a full grasp of reality when the turbulence hits. I am wondering how these adults are keeping it all together. They are barely giving anything away, it’s hard to imagine them roll it out on all floors, I bet they could, I have let it all out and today is my first time here. There are stoned faces that line the family courtyard, like a line of martyrs that hold their space, unmoved, hardened, there’s nothing left to error. A place of rocks where the wandering seeds of emotion are stifled, let the lava flow and break them up; they would be harder than before.

In this very courtyard, was a child born to royalty. A male son, from the long line of girls before him, nine in all and finally ‘badudwan’ could be the fattest goat after all. The blessed fruit enchanted in love, a mouth from which the golden spoon must never leave, unbounded freedom fully bestowed in one man child. He is next in line, finally there’s an heir, true son of the land to take it up, and the seat of royals just got warmer.

Had they seen it coming, had they known, the bastard child they left to die would never have seen woes like he, children born to be motherless. In the night of stupor, the drunken king did lie, but it’s a matter no one dare speak of, the secret held in tight briefs amongst the high council. The maiden to whom the cursed child was born is gone. By birth she did give life to lose it, that a nineteen year old girl’s name was wiped before her history could be written. Was her lowly birth name going to be written anyway? She a peasant they said, leave her body in the unmarked grave.

Fifteen winds have passed over the royal child, the man child is not running around in glee no more, the mature young man can take a wife. Abomination! How could he? The rules that elevated him by birth must be the same to put him down. His head lies within the guillotine, the order for the lever is at the tip of the raised gun. The life must be taken for the defying royal blood. But why? Why Of all maidens it’s the crown princess you must defile? She did bloom beyond any feeble feet to ever step on this land but now that flower, like her tears are lost to the river. Before their eyes she did jump, and they let her because they didn’t know and you had kept quiet. Let the blood spill, the gods demand it, the royal seat must be left cold.

Did I fall asleep to wake up in alternate universe? Did the gods not warn them of this? I could not imagine being here. I am the royal blood line that muddled in the gutters, and slept amongst the prickly ferns with the sky as my blanket; I believed the skies would watch over me, then these soles so brittle and rasp to break can rest. I was the ace card in the sleeve of gods. I had to know more cold than the eyes that besiege me, that I may be a different kind of warmth to the royal seat.

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