They sat on a dank wooden bench in the dark by the inky river
darting through the heart of the capital.
You have to let me go, she said. Her hand heavy on his chest and heart
I’ll get you the castle, he said.
It’s not about the castle
Eons later, returning to the bench, gazing into the dark once more
the spotlight of the lantern embracing the Dark Vagabond with ghastly,
spectral wisps, the light a hallowed halo like a crown
He stares an abyss into the river, which is not the same
He touches the damp wood of the bench. It’s not the same
He is put on stage, strings of fate yanking from above
He is the tin man, looking for this heart.
He touches wood, he is made of tin; his hand hard on his heart held
together by gold, samurai art.
Eons later, the Samurai plays the Scribe and tells the tale to the painter
You have to go back, he says, find another Queen.
Eons later, the tearmaker knows: It’s always about the Castle.
It’s about siege, the throne, the crown, the Court
the king, the queen, the theater of drama, tension, pain, War, anguish
fever, hate, fury,
of phoenices, of ash, of fire, of a laser that cuts down hearts as Vengeance. This is about the lunatic howling at the moon, ready to die on a Snowy,
This is about classic monsters. Beauty breaks the lock on the cage
of the Beast.
Eons later, the Vampiric Overlord sits behind a wooden table.
You’re the Writer, right? she said.
He smirks. Beckoning; the moth, the Flame
Eons later, this High Priestess, she lights the candle to the altar that is this wooden slab. Where each word written or spoken is an incision in the book of spells.
This cathartic operation commenced with the catalyst on a construction
of wood and it led to just a plank of wood
The No-beard ever expecting mutiny, the plank the bridge to doom
Eons before, the Pirate grabbed the book of spells
What’s your name? he asked the fairy with no tail
She smiles , celestial constructs colliding in this careful cosmos
He looks at her
She lights the candle
The Torch, the Tale
the hand on the heart, the fury
I’m not a hero, he thought. I’m not a king.
Yet he picks up the Book. He plays the scribe. The Poet.
And the fairy with wings, lunatically always too close to the sad sun
And desolate sea.
Yet he writes for eons. The words are the relics, the artifacts of ancient elements
Wood, ink, tin, gold, ash, snow, flame,
It rains in the tomb dark, water pelting the glass
He gazes into the flame
The rainmaker writes.
The Enchantress asks, What is your name?
The pen, the papyrus, the scroll
The elements breaking open the heart
There is no name for that.