Wednesday, April 20, 2005

crowking

I am the crowking
deserted
I am the crowking
lost my murder

I am the crowking
hands in my pockets
I am the crowking
kingdom empty

I am the crowking
a crown of pigeon bones and rat skin
I am the crowking
alone

I am the crowking
nothing at all
I am the crowking
deserted

Pity me
Despise me
Hate me
Celebrate me

I am the crowking

Nothing

If I was to spin you my tale, you would feel revulsion and hate. I will spare you of these troubled emotions and skip to me as I am now. The crowking. Once proud and mighty. Now alone, standing with my back to my kingdom. The murders have cast me out. A king with no subjects is no king at all. My kingdom once all the sky of the western hemisphere, now a grassy patch of land and a solitary black tree. If a genie could grant me a wish, I would make one. If I had the power to change how things turned out, I would. By snapping my fingers, by magic. Make everything all right again. I could still do it. I could still get off my wings and do it. I could re-unite the murders lost to me. It would even be worth it but for now, I will wallow in self pity and croak my misfortune to the black tree and the grey grass. The black tree is my new palace. A palace for one. The grey grass my new sky. My wings are on my back and yet they are not. The black tree and the grey grass are all I have left. My places of rest, my friends, my dominion. The black tree stands barren. I rest among the hard branches and nest in twigs. The grey grass threatens to swallow me. I speak to them. all the time. The black tree and the grey grass do not speak to me. They hold their silence. Maybe they don’t listen, and so I can hope that they may not judge.

I am the crowking. Hands in my pockets back to the world.

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