Witch Son
On ill omens and lost privileges.
Outcasts still stray through woodland
pathways, cavalries of lost
tumblers, branch-breakers.
They know of me, my golden son,
and the foul omen I plagued them with.
Yet it wasn’t me who broke the seal,
who spoiled a sacred vow, who
tarred the scarred lungs of our home.
You must never let them see you, my boy.
They believe you dead, and better for it.
The accursed child, a royal babe
bronzed atop heaven-fire,
a toad prince in wait of a
future kiss. I’m sorry
the million soil heartbeats
aren’t friends enough.
Your Father lies dead, the bearer of this
wicked curse, never to live with it.
Your mother lies dead, to lay beside
a black heart, her only sin.
Your kingdom has returned to earth, its
subjects sprouting trees from their bellies.
You have me and you have your life,
with that, be something more than a fool.
C.B
This poem is part of a larger narrative I’m working on, a fantasy piece in which a cursed prince is taken to live in the forest upon the downfall of his lineage. Hopefully, that provides a little glimpse of what’s going on here. All the best, my friends!
