Throne

Distasteful to be out of bed, to write a scene where you’re a fanatic and the only sound for miles is the trace of your own breath, fears pounding in your head like a heartbeat.

You’ll need a lot more time than just this to prepare yourself; they’re dropping like flies and you’re in line for the throne. Every face spirals like a flight of stairs, and when you lean over the railing to look up all you see are their eyes glaring down. They know your game, they know the cards you dealt yourself. You smile in return, there’s nothing they can do to stop you.

The death of your father is like a room you don’t visit often; dusty with white cloth over all the furniture, dried flowers drooping on the table. You wish his coffin was as nice as you imagined it to be.

You’re stronger without him but desensitized, a few moments of silence acting as a signal to strike, mind sending frantic messages to every part of your body begging you to act, to move, to do anything besides stand perfectly still, smiling for the camera. You hope they don’t see the exhaustion in your eyes, how happiness dies on your lips.

They hope that when you kill your way to the throne, you'll take mercy on them.

Mercy stopped being an option when the throne was the only thing you had left.

Author's Note

Another predictive text poem.

Reviews

[Bacchus]

how happiness dies on your lips...
how descriptive- really great line.