Writing Collection

Burden

They only speak of the weight of that crown.

The burns from the candle and the remnants of its wax.

They only speak of their pains and anguish.

Whether it is an elaboration, only they know.

They utter of the honour it is to hold that light.

The great pride that would be brought upon them,

If I were to achieve that glory,

That they could only wish for.

So, in turn, I do not complain,

As that crown is places on my head,

And that candle is passed to my trembling hands,

With an Amaryllis woven into my hair.

The crown may pierce my skin,

And the droplets of wax scar my forearms.

I may undergo suffering and hurt,

Yet i will not exclaim my discomfort.

In the end, I will die hand in hand with regret.

My torment buried six feet under beside my stagnant heart.

My casket will be a replica of theirs,

Only mine will be decorated with Magnolia and withered Amaryllis.