Easy To Please King
This was the sun: a broken blood vessel on the arm of the horizon, red and orange. This was the sky: purple and gold and blue, clouds swollen like great bruises. This was the rain: the touch of soft fingertips, the sound of a distant crowd, the smell of damp newness.
This was the king: young and ashen and once handsome, tarnished scepter in one hand, hem of ragged cloak in the other, mud-mottled boots resting with him under a tree. This was his crown: long lost, the jewels stripped from it by his enemies, the gold burned from it by his friends. This was his horse Bravo: once white now gray, head held low to graze, hooves chipped and rough, tail wet and mussed by rain.
This was his castle: not one stone left upon another that was not thrown down, an open field charred with torches, the flags of heraldry flapping from spears in the dirt. This was his damsel: long lost, blue eyes and blushing cheeks and puckered lips, brightly brokenhearted, soft and feminine and delicate. This was his knight: armor a curious rust color, sword broken at the hilt, shield with coat of arms struck through, heart stopped by an errant arrow, eyes closed by his king, his body stretched on the other side of the tree like a great granite monument to long dead heroes.
These were the stars: misaligned, no constellations to sail by, no signs to pray by, no bright light but the moon. And this was the moon: God’s faded thumbprint on a cobalt canvas, a half-closed eye afraid to look, a holy teardrop dropping, a silver dollar on black paper, a stepping stone in dark water.
This was today: a hill with a view, his brave horse Bravo, and a place to sit in the shade. He was pleased.
By Sam
