The troubadour lay down his lute and sighed:
“Your Majesty, forgive me
for speaking is what I do worst,
but your presence cuts my song “
The princess turned coyly and smiled.
“Your eyes open to me unfathomable pain,
complex as a conversation,
flashing like razor blades on an artery;
I shall not sleep till I have shared that agony.”
The princess pursed her lips and frowned.
“I am less civilised than you
and more autistic,” the troubadour said,
“the cold beauty of city nights
has been my great and oldest friend.
But grant me the visions of your voice
and I will be transported to the real
by the power and body of your breath.”
She motioned to a guard.
“No, do not threaten
to torture me
you are enough.
Hope is the captive of defeat.
I see the years, the eternal
road, performances to empty rooms,
the struggle and the flight to be
abandoned works; and thee. And Thee…”
you’re not a full-time poet then?
no, just drifting,
can I borrow a pen?
well, we do have one, but we need it, for keeping score,
did you want it
for a long time
or a short time?
I don’t know.
Sentinel Poetry (Online) #40
THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...Since 2002
ISSN 1479-425X March 2006