The Rat King

December 12, 2017 henry_admin 0 Comments
A poem of force

Atop the boughs and over canopy loft

Among the roses, I would venture oft’

To trees that held me present and young

My soul as verdant as the vines from which I swung

The water-lusting land of sand and silt

Bestrode a freight where naught else was built

The rusty warden of my kingdom’s damned

Was not a place that I could understand

The scabbing rust then bled a fleet of rats

To rape my lustrous green with plagued gnats

They wail in the night with such a weep

To draw me then at dawn of a short, thin sleep

My mind was blazing as I whittled my knife

To bring an end to the Rat-King’s pitiful life

I saw myself a God-like Achilles, for my wrath

Would bring the state of Troy to flattened ash

In the boxcar-corner sat gluttonous pride

With only one servant to keep its hide

Its eyes were vehement and evil as hell

Bubbling with poison, my family’s death did they tell

Around my wooden spear my fingers clasped tight

And downward brought the point down to seal my rite

But my knife was too dull and cut like a stone

To feel through every flesh, muscle and bone

The rat shuddered and shrieked in a frenzy so scarred

That it unleashed the wails of its resting guard

So dissonant were these harmonious screams

That I thought I was caught in some devil’s scheme

But this servant of his was no servant at all

But an offspring or husband to keep defense tall

For when I cut through the rat’s plentiful breast

I cut through her unborn too, slept in a warm rest

And my soul bled skyward, like the beast from below

My heart was so withered, it set the demons aglow

“God or Satan!” I cried “Whatever you may be!

Teach me your lesson, lest you win the rest of me!”

Her eyes rolled to madness as she held on to life

In spite of the constant abjection of her lonely strife

It took so much killing so there might be and end

For her screams to fall silent, and so my soul might mend

I was a raving madman in each of my blows

Until she lay there mutilated, crimson and rose

She would not accept fate, even at final breath

Even as she was sedated by the eternal sleep of death

For whatever victory, my battle was won

My soul was forever bloodstained,

And my game forever done

A poem of force

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