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From High Atop The Castle Walls, And Deep Within My Soul

The last letter of a dying king

By Peter von HartenPublished 2 years ago 4 min read
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From High Atop The Castle Walls, And Deep Within My Soul
Photo by Pro Church Media on Unsplash

I awoke unto a dark place unfamiliar,

Where light abstains its reach

And color is rendered neutral in the path

Of striking the heavens beyond.

In all manner of human thought given over to wishes vain, I could say that this is a glorious attempt to be sure, yet also one that is futile by its very nature. Out here, we are aware that colors are only as beautiful as the perception which holds them in limbo for a time. Perhaps serenity and an age, and yet thought is a transient form.

Stray, but unwavering. Constant, yet still. And I am the sum of the kings passed before me, I am the stale bread broken upon platters of indecency, I am the poverty-stricken, ruthless, callous ruler.

Had I been measuring time, I would say that time is perhaps measuring me. Flawless in character, striking in mannerisms laden with all the contempt of humanity and their ills.

Flightless angels bleed for their wings, riches of gold, trimmed and flowing about the ornate palace walls of a place few will ever reach. And I am greedy, I spoil the angry man, I treat my betrayers and detractors as if they were the best of company I ever knew. Friends and lovers do not compare.

I suppose it is fair to say that they have taught me everything I know, now put into practice by witless wisdom.

And yet we seem ugly from afar. The people are wicked, mad, drunk. I cannot say I blame them, for it was I who poisoned their food.

But let us speak not of castes and classes of society. Out here, they do not exist. Only the suffering matters, and what you may gain from it. I do not pretend to invigorate my senses, for they speak the truth of me.

Knowledge is best left to those who know. Not the king born into a world in which he was told all the days of his childhood life that he is special, ordained by God.

No, I am a fool, and a proud fool at that.

And so I gave my hunters the greatest education, I sent them out to bring back news of what lies beyond, be it drowning sea or endless sky. Cloudless, blue, quivering fate that sends ships to their demise. Stars that prove their mettle as the great captains of the sea whilst the crew succumbs to the echoes of the deep.

Earthen remains, skeletal, they shudder in the sunlight. I have been told that the prey lives on, and how, I cannot imagine. The animals thrive on the tombs of knights recognized only in death. And when their corpses rise with the shifting plates, the crows devour them.

Death is the strangest cycle, and one I must admit that I know perhaps more intimately than life. We scrounge for meaning, for the sustenance that food cannot provide. And when we find it, we eat hastily. The finest meal in days, the natural progression, the sad gluttony that comes every month.

And yet still, we lie famished beneath the open stars, awaiting their return from banishment. The greatest curse of our forbears was laid upon us, you see.

But enough about that. I am tired.

Tired of my acquaintance with death and all that the endless cycle brings. I tire of the wind, of the raging ocean sloshing between my crooked toes. I can scarcely walk upon the sands anymore, and I used to cherish it so. My limbs have turned arthritic.

Now the days ahead are dark, the colors halting in our presence as we take to the cosmos. Fields of light, we envy them as they dance upon the calm surface of reflection in our minds, in our hearts.

They guide the way of ships, they put shame to our compasses. The uncharted lands are what we fear most; the unknown, the unconquered. And in some ways, this observation makes me feel selfish because I want it so. I long for the wars and battles of my forbears, to find a place worth conquering.

Yet it is the unknown which has somehow conquered me, and this is what I fear most: that I am become those lands, that I have already traveled there in the absence of memory.

As I watch the hunters traverse, I see the fear that lies ahead in their journey. I see why they are hesitant to move, and so again, the colors fade. No bleeding, no thought, only stricken death that comes for them in the howling winds of the foreboding night.

I rest my feet upon the windowsill, listening, watching. I am troubled here even though I know I am safe, because the earth is shifting and quaking. I feel it in my bones, in the fire and lightning that can no longer be seen.

And so if I were to wish upon a fallen star—though all is encased in shadow thus far—I would wish that the past might be undone. That we would not hide the light, nor fall anymore into the deep reckoning of our wishful souls.

This is the measure, you see. The measure of a man crowned too early who fornicates upon the tables of his own demise, ripping treaties to shreds.

Above all…I would wish to be human once more, that this weight would not crush my shoulders a moment longer. For the skies were once beautiful, and I know this to be true. And perhaps they will be again.

This much is up to me. A king. A would-be father, left tattered in ungrateful majesty.

Someday, I pray my children should understand, even as they eclipse me.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Peter von Harten

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