He stared with slack jaw and open palms above his head; begging, pleading with any God who would hear him; his sanity unraveled like discarded yarn, tattered remains of what was once a great king.
A king who wedged his kingdom under the heavy rubber of his grime ridden boots. The crown upon his head was made of thorns and withering roses; stolen from the garden of his banished mistress who's name sounded a lot like Fate, the wine that stained his lips was stolen from the poor maids and kitchen staff who prepared food he didn't eat and drew baths he let run cold. The desolation and isolation within the mind of a king bordering insanity and enlightenment was as complex as the intricate designs the weavers wove into his sheets. His rage grew exhausted with him, tempted to blister and peel his skin away, fickle with the cruel curse of insubstantial commodity. His riches and rum would do little to slick the path of sorrow with syrup. Instead he drank and dissolved away, screaming into the abyss—
"Why me?"
YOU ARE READING
Hysterical letters to my sanity
Poetrya collection of poems inspired by stories I've read, people I've met and paths I've crossed, read and enjoy yourself:)
