SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.9: The Killer

IMITATION

Darkness, yes, a cynic at times,
often do I tell grim tales,
of world gone wrong for mayhem's cause,
and people that wrong world ails

yet hope remains my central focus,
the shadows accent our globe,
taking turns with holy light,
like changing of silken robes

a bitter flavor blended strong
gives power to a drink -
like sugar, too much bitterness
can make your beverage stink

Unpleasant doth become the one
who makes the cynic home
and welcomes into their abode
the gloominess and loam

their vision darkens gradually,
their hope burns to the wick,
they start to care less for their people,
and cure becomes new sick

for hopes not reached must burn down too
ashes back to soil
so hope can be reborn anew
and earned with hopeful toil

Lazy cheats and platitudes
help none to make this faster
symbols used egregiously
steal-borrowed from their masters

does whipping tigers make them kittens?
nor beating children starved?
nor holding captive maidens smitten?
nor reprimands fresh carved?

should monsters known be punished so
for being such a beast?
is better one who knows not fear
for carnage that he eats?

* * *

I used a rubber band to tie my long hair back into a ponytail, and turned my head to the side. In the bathroom mirror, I saw the little thing, curled into itself. I'd spent all yesterday using browned sugar and paper to wax off my beard, and iron tweezers to pluck whatever stubble remained. It was a trick my mother had taught me, something the Egyptians used to do. My face finally clean, I felt relief, and smiled to see my new visage. I looked a bit like I did younger, but with benefits of maturity: strength and wisdom. I played with the hair on my head, mussing my bangs in different ways, combing them back and forth with my fingers. My hair was soft and straight-like, but also wavy and wiry, halfway like the Irish I grew up with and halfway like the moors I'd just come back from. It wouldn't sit at all like I wanted it to, and I learned that to confront it was to make it worse – I relented to its natural wilderness. I decided to comb it back on the sides, leaving some to dangle in chaotic spirals next to my ears. On top, I combed it back, and on one side I combed my front bangs up and to the right. I thought it looked both grown-up, and cute. My face was becoming, dare I say, prettier; my lashes and eyebrows were softer, and my lips were thicker. I was starting to remind myself of my mother, and of The Pirate... I mean, The Lover. But, to my dismay, my bones mismatched my intent, making my face look large and gaunt. I wasn't manly, but mannish, and frustrated by that. Pressing on my jaw and cheekbones didn't seem to make them any smaller. The only woman I could be mistaken for was an incredibly strong one, which suited my confidence but not my feelings. I didn't resent manhood, but I was tired of its imposition on me, and wanted some room to breathe. Still, its grip had my neck by the apple.

I stepped outside, into cool Portuguese air. The wooden inn was just a small cabin on a hill, overlooking the rest of a town built into the side of a mountain. O Rosto was the name of this place, a stone-walled fortress of wide but short towers bricked in grey. Even in winter, with snow at the peak of the mountain and frost on the ground, the grass was yet green, and all home's corners were dotted by red, violet, and yellow flowers. When the sun rose, so did the heat once more, flora and fauna unthreatened by the cold of night gone. I watched a trio of goats ascend what seemed like a sheer wall, their shaggy white fur dancing in wind. At the top, they leapt for higher grass and bounded further up the mountain. The sun peaked, and as usual, it made no apologies in extra warmth for taking longer to reach us. For that, I was back in full garb, now with fur boots and an extra sweater over my shirt, cloak layered over it all as always.