Oh, you King
Of the branch,
Emperor of your
Nestlings,
Purple robe
Golden crown,
Your perch all
Pomp and
Whistling.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: Majestic
Oh, you King
Of the branch,
Emperor of your
Nestlings,
Purple robe
Golden crown,
Your perch all
Pomp and
Whistling.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: Majestic
He’d come from royalty. Or at least from those who should’ve been but history had been too blind to realize their value. He’d seen promise in his older brother James: a lust for power and a need to force his will onto others. But James hadn’t shown enough self-preservation for a prince. A pity … but at least it left no issue of seniority.
Since childhood the conspiring doctors tried to claim him ill with “grandiosity.”
His mother failed to see. “We come from farmers, Thomas. Always have.”
Perhaps she truly believed her forefathers were but serfs to the O’Neills, but he knew better. He’d seen himself in the drawing, and it fit what he’d always known: He was destined for more, a royal progeny.
He’d take the island by force. It’ll make them realize it was past time he reclaimed what was his by rights, even if forgotten by history.
For What Pegman Saw: Northern Ireland
“It doesn’t matter where you live,” they said.
She knew they lied. It most certainly did!
When rain leaked onto your mattress and the wind snuck in through the window and mice crawled over your cheek in the middle of the night, it more than mattered.
“The only thing that matters is who you are,” they said.
Perhaps. But what good was it being a princess if your room was drafty and the tower creaked and the stairs were grooved with age and slippery with sloshed-over chamber-pots?
She’d swap her chamber for a page’s pallet by the hearth, if she could.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Castle in 100 words
Surely all would admit
Something here does not fit
King or not
No one ought
To require this bed
For their camped royal head.
tucked away in the mountains
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