Oh! Dear life,
your majesty,
my liege.
Your cling to me,
on my neck,
is but paper thin,
like a fragile necklace
adorned with jewels
and a string of copper.
Oh! But my choice to you
is just the same.
Your hands aren’t what
I held, but in front of me
is a mirror,
and my hands to yours
are outstretched to tips,
and my mind is the glass
holding us back from touching.
There is nothing much
more for me
to go on beyond
than what fate meant me.
As crowns are meant for kings,
they are vanities to dead men.
And my soul has long ago
left, as all do,
nothing else remaining.
I have this strange pang in my heart:
“I have already suffered.
Please, no more.”
With the same voice
of a prisoner rightfully tortured,
and a child unjustly disciplined.
Oh! Cruelty!
Oh! Tragedy!
“What more can you
take away from me?”
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