stigmata upon the bruised and naked flesh of
a man who has carried his cross in line with jesus;
he is not a savior, not the holy. he is but a man
who has killed in the name of his dreams.
this crime of passion, this feeling of entitlement
to a greater death than his; this is the reason that
he has known all along that he was chosen. that
he will be destined to be the next big failure,
revered for everything that he could not bring himself to be.

the sun beats down at an awkward angle,
creating shadows into his sunken eyes.
the sweat, dripping from the crown of the kingdom
which he has been forced to lead,
mixes into the tiny river of blood within the
confines of the furrowing of a brow.

the wind blows the sand into these cuts,
this battered sting is burning with the
ferocity of what he could never have
described. this is for the kingdom of
an unwilling king. this is for the dynasty
of the empty emperor. this is for the
end of a long and binding road, this
dream where shadows cast upon the face,
with the remorse sneaking every now and then
into the eyes behind the shadows.

if he could have been anything,
he would have chosen to be nothing at all.

02/07/2004

Posted on 02/07/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams