Execution

A sword to his neck, the man did not flinch,

but closed his eyes and faded deep inside,

where the soul awaited, remembering his bride,

her fingers touching flowers on the hillside.

“Prepare now, traitor, for you have sinned,”

announced the cruel king, a thorn in his eye,

as the crowd pleaded innocent, but could not defy -

all stood helplessly to uselessly comply.

“Spare him, my lord,” shouted a young lad,

“He has committed no crime but to gently love,

and you show us now that you’d bleed a dove,

that any eyes with stars, you would dispose of.”

The king’s daggered glare was enough to silence

the small attempt to humble the ego's mold,

but washed in age the ruler’s thoughts were old,

and with crown on his head he could not be told.

“I stand amongst fools, liars, and cheats,

the very people I shower prosperity towards,

yet now you test the reasonability of our accords -

I give you gifts, but loyalty you cannot afford!”

The townspeople lowered their cowardly heads

before the muddy boots of a long-tongued snake

whose aura lit with fire against the daybreak

and in the summer sun, brought a lost snowflake.

A cold, jagged grin spread wide on his face,

like the teeth of ruthless mountains never passed through,

a condemned marsh of death where nothing grew,

not the bravest of birds there ever flew.

A hush fell through the crowd as they timidly viewed

the man breathing slowly, arms roped tight,

bent over against a block of wood in the skylight,

and a trickle of blood as the king pressed the blade slight.

“This is the consequence if you choose to disobey,

like this worthless creature who would somehow believe

that romantic happenings allow you to deceive

the hand that feeds you, and your pain relieve.”

But each mind knew the truth of this remarkable tale,

of a commoner and queen fallen into the other’s arms,

she as the victim of political abuse and harms,

and he the soft-spoken knight from lowly farms.

Deep bruises she had hidden, within and without,

of decorated dresses that meant nothing for her heart,

as she cursed her birth and family’s royal part

of playing obedient pawn in the ugly chess-art.

Often she would soak her pillows in the night

with scalding tears of longing to disguise and run afar,

saying “Dear life, there must be more to what you are,

than a daily blow of constriction and bleeding scar.”

Alas, she would frown and walk on through fields

where the soldiers took pity and turned their heads,

as she explored through new forests and flowerbeds

and chanced upon a farm with rose of pinks and reds.

Their eyes met wet, and the man was taken aback

as mutual sorrow fluttered between their glance,

while they stood whispering an understanding by chance -

he stepped towards her as if overcome by trance.

“My lady,” he bowed, with an affectionate stare,

“Whatever I can do for you, please utter your command,

for I would clear the stormy oceans and prickled sand

if it would dry those tears you wipe with your hand.”

She cried quietly and his heart ached beyond words,

a knot in his chest that tightened with each breath,

compelling action that would guarantee his death,

when he placed his arms around her in the encircled heath.

From that day forth, they would frequently meet -

the queen would slip away in the busy afternoon,

the guards would kick rocks while she hurried down the dune,

and went for walks with this stranger beneath the moon.

He gazed at her curiously, for she would suddenly burst

into laughter like a stream splashing gracefully by -

now there was no more heaviness in her beautiful sigh,

as she pranced through the grass like a bright butterfly.

As the stars would rise, they would sit on the hill,

interweaving their fingers into a tender, warm hold,

and she would say, “With you, I feel so light and bold -

this moment is worth more than all the kingdom’s gold.”

She would then rest her cheek against his pounding chest,

as he felt alive in her presence, complete in her bliss,

a grown man sitting shyly, leaning for a kiss,

confessing, “Without you, there’s a piece I always miss.”

But alas, her disappearances raised the brow of the king,

a suspicion that festered with boiling rage,

and one evening he followed her out of the castle cage

into the trees where she strolled to another stage.

“Guards!” he screamed and called an entire army to arrest

the passive man who the queen dared to favor best,

as she pleaded with the lord, clinging to his chest,

while he swung his fist and pressed a knife to her breast.

The man was beaten to the ground and chained in iron,

dragged through dirt and stone splitting cuts on his skin,

while the king bruised the queen where wounds had been,

and she bled into the soil of the man’s garden.

Struck with grief and immeasurable pain on the block,

the king’s sword lifting in the air ready to maim,

the man finally spoke, “My lady was never to blame,

since you married you hurt her without any shame.”

The crowd whispered and the king suddenly paused,

“I deny these charges, which nobody would believe -

he lies to us all, my townsfolk, we shouldn’t receive

accusations from a beggar to make you misperceive!”

The man raised his head to gaze into the crowd,

and they immediately groaned with sympathy and regret,

for on his face was the deepest wound time had shown yet,

of a wrongdoing they could never forget.

Now their voices filled the air too late,

as the king brought down his sword in a jealous blaze,

blurring the crowd in a blood-frenzied haze,

and the sun rapidly withdrew its comforting rays.

The sword through his neck, the man did not flinch,

but closed his eyes and faded deep inside,

where the soul took flight, gone to his bride,

their fingers touching flowers on the hillside.