This is the first of a new set of poems I’ll be writing. Instead of writing many shorter poems I’m going to put a higher effort into some 150 to 300 word poems.
Shuzzekiah and his son.
One a mischief maker, that is true.
Good worker? No. None have used those words.
King of mischief, deeply so,
Maker of nothing else, how well displayed.
Raised in a well of decrepit deceit,
Floundering forgerers and thick thieves,
Shuzzekiah grew and overtook the men present,
The women also there,
Bowed to his presence, and one bare his boy.
The boy was named grandly,
And oil was poured upon his brow,
A prince among paupers, born to King of the Underworld,
Shuzzekiah gave all he had,
And spent every last penny he could steal on his baby.
The man watched his child grow strong,
Under the voices of singers and poets,
Whose words he had scripted with tales of daring and love,
He could never let his son,
Miss on becoming the man he couldn’t have been.
“Pick a few men. We’ll take the town”,
Shuzzekiah spoke many years down the line,
And as the chorus rose to crescendo,
He galloped in between the homes, down the dust road,
He could never forget his son,
His inevitable betrayal that he had been prophesied for.
A month after the boys birth he was taken,
To his mothers mothers mother and was told,
“Little silver child, it is you who shall rise and rise,
And overtake the golden,
With the help of the very same, the future shall be bright.”
These words Shuzzekiah remembered as he lay,
Dying in his baby’s strong silver arms,
He spoke to his killer and his son of those words,
And laid his golden head to rest,
The future of that land was free and bright at last.