Trouble-Made Prince

-This poem is my attempted explanation at what writing is like for me. Maybe that explains a few things.-

Rest atop a crumbling mound

Of black ash and smoldering coals

A destitute slave, the shadow of

A sovereign wretch. The

Sky’s ablaze and smoke blots out

The eye of an uncaring god

And as your subjects cry for you

Their words are drowned in blood

Regrettable, but necessary for

A world made new. Stumble in

The darkness seeking light

Through ruined eyes. My

Trouble-made prince, the thorns

Have ripped your flesh to shreds

Dropping dimes, you drown the

Pain with nectar’s gold, a

King inside, become the towering

God of your new world.