The Last Son
In my ear something whispers, tells of tales of burning blisters,
forbids the haunting of my sisters, last of sons to bear our name.
Like fleas in whiskers- embedded splinters,
a Soul that's known too many Winters,
felt just one too many shivers-
puts my family crest to shame!
Sin of Sins is potential wasted, failure tasted on a daily basis.
Jaded thoughts in anger basted, long awaited signs of Truth.
My secrets naked, cut and pasted, Time to Space in cryo-stasis;
bring masks of faces, changing places, all I need to seize the proof!
In our nest found Viper eggs, Black Mamba mouth and Widow webs;
cobra fangs, Komodo legs, the sting of buried Scorpion.
Killer bees on murder sprees, venom- how it quickly spreads!
Such toxic bites, to my delight, end my role to be "the son".
My duty relieved, can freely breathe, no longer bound by obligation.
I now have need to craft and weave the lordly exit of earthly King.
So I take my leave, my goal achieved, looking for a grand reception-
I do believe my aching Heart, the Soul of Art- is my only precious thing!
Copyright © Just That Archaic Poet | Year Posted 2014
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