To The Unfortunate Stranger

Have you heard of the great tales?

Violent love, hopeless despair, unforgivable loss-

Vicious queens, poisoned apples.

Twisted magic, enchanted damsels-

Singing sirens and flying carpets.

In this imperfect story of mine, who will you be?

To the you in the future

worn alone, fighting savage Time.

Will you be the arrogant prince on a compulsory white horse,

waiting to gift me dewy roses and polished jewels, each day sighing crafted, empty clouds?

To this me, vessel of tainted darkness, who have not unearthly beauty to offer,

nor a gold crown upon my head, nor pure kindness in my heart-

Why, it mars your magnificence, your majesty.

But could it be you who would take me, my distorted self?

My request,

if I may be so bold to trespass beyond my value.

I need not any of it.

Dubious of his faultlessness, unquestionably naive,

surely, there is some evil writhing beneath the gentleman.

What man cannot embrace his own defects?

In this imperfect story of mine, who will you be?

To the you in the future,

abused by brutal seasons, kin of Morpheus.

Will you be the prideful warrior swinging the rusted sword,

A ruthless cut-throat to your enemies, sweet and gentle only to your tiny mate?

To this me who have not wretched strength to match,

no fire roaring in my soul to tempt your ferocious spirit-

A wilting flower that cries with the wind’s breath,

a mark of insult upon your unrivalled feats.

But could it be you who would take me, my flawed self?

My request,

if I may be so bold to trespass beyond my value,

I need not any of it.

Suspicious of his intent, always,

counting his sins-

Surely, there must be some remorse,

some desire for penance?

What man condones savagery disguising it as honest honour?

In this imperfect story of mine, who will you be?

To the you in the future,

born as I was, heat, flesh, dependant.

Will you be the lowly peasant who rise to fame in spite of the ridiculous odds,

all in the name of owning my irrevocable devotion?

Then, perhaps, after finding your origin as a demigod,

or perhaps, you discovered the unnaturality of your lineage,

born, perhaps, between the coupling of fire and ice,

the prophesied hero destined to marginally thwart destruction.

Yet you would trade it all for a slip in time with a mere mortal unworthy of ethereal affections.

A creature made from the entwining of man and woman.

Mediocre-

Replaceable, replicable.

But could it be you who would take my insignificant self?

My request,

if I may be so bold to trespass beyond my value,

I need not any of it.

Wary of growing ambitions, aspirations-

Surely, love should not be bought by battles and blood?

Surely, the life of one lady should not be equated to a world?

Does he mean to place the charge

of millions of lives upon my shoulder?

Does he desire for me a life of guilt, of repentance-

for allowing him to make the trade!

And what of his blood-

Shall our union set upon our child another curse?

Shall I live on my knees, head pressed to the earth,

praying for both man and child?

To you in the future,

My other half, be you king or crook,

I am sorry.

Woeful, my first words to you,

substituting the conventional three-

I am sorry.

Inexcusable, that I should not confess more profoundly.

Yet, truth is truth- no need for shameful denial.

If fate declared you be tied to me

If the heavens decree you to complete me

If you have the misfortune to love me

I cannot be your Elizabeth, your Catherine, your Iseult,

I have not such tender disposition

Nor baseless compassion

Nor absurd vigour in mind or body

Nor cracking wit or noble station

or a sea of wealth to bestow

A staggeringly imperfect half.

To you in the future,

from this worthless, defective mask of a woman

a thousand promises in your name.

Not a single spark shall fade from what you lit.

For each that I take from you,

for all that I cost you,

with all the grace my vessel holds,

with all the good in my capacity,

I shall be your sacrifice, your balm, your weapon.

Your burden and sufferings,

I shall carry twice its weight,

And should you fall,

I shall whisper those promises again and a thousand more,

My dear Fool.