The King and the Virgin

An armoured King sitting attentively on a barren hill, devoid of season, just constantly under a sallow cloud of mist, dreams of things that men cannot feel, Surrounded by a blackened forest with withered trees that never bare leaves, tall, ageless stone walls, and ideas and machinations with a will of their own, he finds a certain peace, There in the hollows of the unaccepted ways there is a grace, a calling met with virtue, a bursting cynical enthusiasm like the spilling of dark ink on the white spaces left by an incomplete confession, From there the slimy tendrils of a once naive love sprung and slithered into a conventional world, a world of plastic dreams, dripping a vaporous fretfulness like the coughs of a young child, endearing but ill, he was to learn, The time no longer moves up there in the murkiness of this bastion, in this cerebral engine room of swirling voices, echoing watchfulness, as the King lines up each heart wrenching biopic of the lives he has lived and the betrayals he has endured, Up on the stone walls the scenes flash, the memories bullishly grimace and the voices laugh silently with their faceless smiles, His memories each separate characters with their own tale, each festering with the memories of each lover and the hurt in the details, the loss of control and the inevitable and suffocating questions, The dawdling whistling wind outside proffers alternate realities, rustling the leaves that are not there, almost parting the clouds to let the outside world peer in, for just a moment, for just a second that seems like eons, enough for doubt, the viscous killer of belief, to aberrantly bring hope, A faint scream in the distance cuts its way through the atmosphere jolting the King with a jarring suddenness, a deep resonating scream only perceptible to reciprocal beacons in this world of abstractions, a scream, almost pleasurable, in the passion of its truth, a scream that almost just as imperceptibly jolts his hidden heart that burns low like a tiny wick in the depths of an iron ore cave, How can it be that agony could be so beautiful, that taunting could seem like soothing, the melodic voice of a siren travelling across dimensions where distance is a farce, how could she know, understand and not be afraid of the bone yard at the foot of the hill, a vision of a Virgin floating above water, water from the endless tears she has cried, water that gives her strength and dilutes the nightmares of those that she loves, the tips of picked flower petals turn magnetically towards her, towards her centre, towards her unknown intrigue, Something from the King’s past hisses as the very ground beneath his booted feet trembles, down in the dungeons a little round eyed boy lifts his head from his knees in the corner where he sits, a prisoner of love and war, forgotten, he hears her too, sees the visions, sees what the King undeniably sees, They sense her emotions like warm breaths on the back of the neck, feel the attraction like the moon overwhelming the tides of the Earth’s oceans, she sees through gigantic eyes like portals from world’s more wise, her fearlessness astounding, facing the meaning of others’ lives, breaking down their fears, straightening the confusions and giving them a greater sense of self, The King’s fragile self could sense her vulnerability, a rescuer by nature, he could hear the drums of destiny, or doom, hastening the beat of an almost still heart, the clouds begin to darken and the pictures stop their dancing, all there is are words, his and hers, words creating the platform, silent words with the heaviness of love…


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