When You Become a Forgotten King
Someday you’ll become a forgotten king, a man
buried under life, rusty and worn out.
Grabbing hold of your own tarnished hand
reminds you of young promises bought.
Like the runaway balls of childhood,
your missteps grow golden with faith
that is kept under lock and key, a brood
of lovers withholding touches, saving space,
longing for the uneasy tremble of soothed
troubles, remembering the days you failed
only to find them cherished as you sip cooling
fluids to keep your death fevers curtailed.
You’ll reach a day when you want to return
just once to a time your young shame burned.
Return to Archive