An old poem I wrote in Grade 9.

the king of the east and west tells of a wall of sweet honeyed words engraved in the hearts of those who held their hearts to the sky and shielded their ears from the misty words of a misty cove

a sickening unnatural bright white light, the cold breeze of winter threatening and finding its way into the vast yet strangely empty space. The curtains dance among the wing, swirling, never dying. it draws the king’s anger.

king of the east and west, veiled and bright. upon a throne nested in light. be, and it is- and so it shall. a lamp, a pearly white star, glows untouched by the fire, an olive tree blessed by he whom never tires. blesses and curses, an empty cabin unfurnished

the faintest dripping sound- heard only if you strained your ears till they bled. clean spotless sheets, slightly translucent. the dry warmth, the heavy heart. part of the scenery, part of the routine. its home, almost.

almost is nothing if not for the walls that defend a people forgotten by the strong and pitied by the weak. the king scoffs at perfect. he bellows, a hearty laugh, the trumpet sounds. her hair turns gray, the mountains plucked from their roots pierce the heavens

its time stopping. uncomfortable physically, but mentally there’s nothing more perfect. the silence is broken with a small sound, an exchanging of nicknames, endearing and adoring. amber: warm, dramatic meets grey: cold and metallic. they fit like the last piece of a never ending puzzle. it’s cold.

they said he rested on the seventh- but they lied. the king laughs again. the metal, cool to the touch, blinds a man who thought he could see. he loves the odd numbered one, seven, nineteen. he hates drama but they give it to him as gift, boxed and wrapped in a bow. it pleases their eyes, but their eyes are plucked out by their misguided mentors. interpret, misinterpret? do the men by the river flow into the oceans or the sea?