Behind the Kings Crown

Around me he dethroned himself from his public persona pedestal.

The King, I found Mane less across my lap.

Who knew a Jungle so Marvelous was managed at the hands of such a mangled soul?

No one…

He chose me, I still don't understand why.

Broken bottles on the ground the taste of pain and stench of corruption in the air and yet he seemed to only find the most perfect mosaic in my cold sharp pieces

So I strive to be this perfect art form at just the right distance,

So afraid if he catches me in my true light he will see my true worth

So afraid if he gets to close he will cut his heart on my imperfections.

I was cautious and carful with every step when it came to him.

A diamond under my tongue I kept him in the safest softest parts of myself

Hiding my fortune from the worlds darkness - from my darkness

He so happy in this illusion, I could keep this up for eternity.

He loves me, and I love him too.

I never took in account how clumsy we would be.

I could see how much he trusted me, but I just couldn’t give it in return at least not in its entirety.

That would only result in the revealing of the true me.

So I let him hold me, it was just once I didn’t see the harm in it.

But his hands became too comfortable and I started to panic

He fumbled and I fell

Broken bottles on the ground the taste of pain and stench of corruption in the air

He thinks he is to blame

He no longer sees a mosaic in this mess of me.

So afraid he won’t stay

So afraid I’ve lost the glow that fist tamed….. --The King, I found Mane less across my lap.

Who knew a Jungle so Marvelous was managed at the hands of such a mangled soul?

No one…

He chose me, I still don't understand why.

 

Worthless Masterpiece

I am a Masterpiece created from Albert Bierstadt himself.

My personality and presence both breathtaking just as he planned.

Admires would pay top dollar to attain me, to flaunt me as the trophy I am.

Oh but so little do they know, as they stare at me in awe of my beauty.

Truthfully I've been touched to many times to even be worth a dime these days.

To think that he was a man whose job was to protect me a guard of my security found himself griping on to my untouched mountains pieces of curiosity and lust fall from beneath his grimy nails tumble down my canvas and wedges itself in the frame of me forever unmoved.

A reminder of my new found worthlessness.

So worthless even my imitations hold more value than I.

Trying to duplicate my beauty their mountains not quite as high and their waters not quite as blue. Their mirroring only causes hate.

Hate for being at such high admiration, such high worth, such high expectation.

If only I could have been created at the hands of a young school boy, or carved into stone by a cave man.

If only I were caged in the mind of young Albert.

Never to be illustrated upon, never to be sought after, never to be looked after, never to be curious towards, never to be explored upon, never to be exploited upon.

Never, Never, Never to be anything.

Just a thought,

a glimpse of Gods talent one to be remembered but never tangible.

I am a worthless masterpiece with cracked paint and a withering canvas.

With this thick piece of dark past wedged between my frame and beauty placed upon me.

One which you cannot see.

Yet still unmoved and unforgettable to me.

To my oldest first love,

When I first got to know you I told myself that you were the man of my dreams.

We were star crossed lovers you and I.

In this life time you were made to be my father, so phenomenal God had to add grand to make it suitable enough to characterize you.

Each of your nick names characterizing you even further.

Mine for you Paw explaining the impression you left- when you left. Inviting me into these poetic eyes I like to think you personally donated them to me.

I only hope to leave as big of a print on others as you left on me.

I wish we could go back to those warm morning with the hint of pancakes, grits, eggs, bacon and butter biscuits resonating on our tongues

Me swinging on the wooden bench, you counting all the fish

Sprawled across the porch captured by the hawk himself earlier that morn.

I pray the next time my eyes meet those mahogany blue trimmed irises of yours we will be in a place where time does not exist.

A place where malignant tumors aren’t prohibiting your speech

But just in case I have brought along this hammer to break every clock and *sign* my hands to talk with you.

I have so much to tell you.

A part of me wants to spill all the beans while the other part of me wants to just sit and look into those glorious eyes. Look into that glorious soul of yours.

Reach into your past and find what caused this horrible termination of your position as my grandfather, or to reach into the future and grasp that small test tube serum that could cure your wife’s broken heart.

But I know I cannot, so I stand here each of my ten toes sunk into the golden sand, hands spread, arms wide allowing the sun to pour a new  pigment in every pore.

It is here where I can feel you the most, the sound waves of your heart crashing against mine becoming me to live life as you had.

Your imprint is forever engraved on my soul.

And when they ask how such a small girl can roar so loud I will tell them I am part lion, paw prints trailing as I go.

(In memory of Esma Robert Hawkins)