Writing Journal #46

You have stolen it. My will to be alone. Vanished in the flash of your eyes, like a magician. I was focused on rules, and words and the cracks in my careful facade. So I did not see the darting hand. The flourish of the cloak. I only saw the smile and the teeth. I only felt my heart hammering away in my chest, building a house for yours when I thought it was building walls. And all too soon. 

The hours and the days ticked on before any ring materialized.

I am still waiting for the Prestige.

But you already stole from my open hand and left no exchange on my finger. A royal digit left crown less even when we both knew months ago, the crown all tied up in legal jargon, pointless phrases, like Tantalus begging for a drop of water.

I see royals everywhere I go, but I am left without country on this endless hill, pushing boulders toward the promise of light and white and clasped hands on an altar.

The execution date will have come and gone, my dreams served up on a platter while I wait from the graves to hear church bells ringing. To see through clouded eyes a knight on bended knee, holding my crown out for me.

Ancient hearts will beat again and masses cry that they never saw me in my grave. That there was no tomb from which I rose. 

That I was the magician, instead of the assistant.

I will take it all with a smile, and bury the scars beneath royal robes. They will see me standing on the mountain. Though I fought through stone and waves to reach the top. 

Photo Credit: Erik Merrill