a head mounted like a trophy on the wall,
if he bothers at all.
I do not believe that
then once again this is a story about lying
lies are better than
HUNT
and
RUN
and
SLEEP
when I have hunted and run and slept
for what feels like a thousand years
even a wolf has a sense of its prey.
this is just wandering, just wild, just chasing moonlight
–I’ll know it when I see it–
what is ‘it’ but ‘something other than this’
–in the end that’s all I want–
more time lurking on the boundary-lines,
more time watching from a distance.
more time to live
more time to laugh
more time to watch the king grow
from an exiled prince into a king who knows his people
who cares for them
his grief has aged him already.
see him emerge, gwyllt, wild, half-dead and shattered with it.
if the saints would stop tormenting him they might make a king
–they say he is a good ruler–
they say a lot of things
–a wife
