I once saw two peasant boys running through
unfettered hills, charging into lush woods,
hands intertwined, eyes brimmed with adventure,
they were both dressed in rags, but they were free,
and all I had was empty pride and fear,
waiting for Damocles sword to be cut
by those polite, proper, smiling siblings.
But at night I dreamt of their sharpened teeth
and hooked claws and yellow talons digging
into my skin and dragging me away.
That burden of waking up with cold sweats
for countless nights, countless weeks, countless years
was simply too painful to tolerate.
For I had been robbed of innocent sleep
when I was but a tiny tender babe.
So as I grew, my soul went dark with fear,
and my thoughts were cold and bloody-minded
as I turned those polite proper smiles
into gushing piles of meat and bone.
With these foul deeds done and draperies cleaned,
I claimed these lands as mine and forced a peace
that was silent and gray.
There would be no songs to threaten my sleep,
no blinding colors to leave me exposed;
all would be still, my rule now absolute.
No longer would I be plagued with nightmares
my sleep now sweeter than a god’s nectar.
I eventually sired many sons,
additions to my perfect age of gray,
born to continue my colorless realm,
infinite generations of my flesh
who’d bring my kingdom to eternity.
But as they grew, their souls were bright with color
red like a fire, blue like a river,
green like lush woods, brown like unfettered hills,
black like the hanging sword of Damocles,
white like those once-polite proper smiles,
and yellow like those sharp, digging talons.
Oh no! I would be smothered by colors
and dragged away into a cold blackness
my sweet sleep undone by these tainted sons.
And so I smote them, every single one,
and damned their colors into my corpse pit.
Their presence would dare threaten my gray world!
But with these deeds done, sweet sleep came no more,
and now with slumber stolen from my soul
I’m aware of every moment before the end:
every footstep, every blink, every breath,
they all bring me closer to my gravestone,
and my gray age will offer no comfort.
So, maybe, perhaps just a bit of sound
will have to do. A small chuckle or laugh.
Ha. See, I already feel much better
Ha Ha Ha. I will no longer fear death;
it can’t hurt me if I laugh at it. Ha.
Ha Ha. Death is but a foolish jester
waving its hands like it’s magnificent
when it is just a facetious farce. Ha.
It trembles in trepidation. Ha Ha.
How could it not buckle at my kingdom?
It stares in stupefaction. Ha Ha Ha.
My tergiversation of death is whole!
I’m so scared.
