With the Fisher King

I brought my broken heart hidden in a chest. Not my ribs, but metal, locked firm to hide away the shame of it. For fear of how my shattered centre would seem to others. For fear of ridicule and rejection, I placed my pain in that box and shut the lid, and went on through the world until I came at last to the great hall.

There, the Fisher King lay, blood endlessly seeping from wounds that would not close. Staining cloth, smearing floors, a life seep affront with metallic perfume. And yet, a King I would bow to. The horror in me asked ‘how can one rule who is so weakened?’

What could I do but sit with him?

From the locked box in my arms, the tattered wreck of my heart cried out: How can one who bleeds so much be this strong? And so broke all the bonds and bared itself.

How can one bleed and bleed and still hold sovereignty? How can one hold sovereignty in this age, and not bleed?

How can my fragile heart be a hidden shame

When the Fisher King lies wounded

And the land has yet to be healed?

 

 

 

(I should mention that I wrote this having not seen the film, and unaware of the Robin Williams connection. Something in the ether, perhaps.)