Fifth In Line

His caustic kingdom fell apart the day I was born.

Born under suspicious minds,

I was delivered by the tempting stork.

The other dead seeds before my time

prayed for Immaculate Conception, hoping to mask his

unborn mistakes.

Fifth in line I am, for his crown of thorns and pot of

gold.

"Don't decapitate us at the drop of a hat."

My lungs screamed for his mercy.

The malignant mazes to his heart left my confidence

cold.

Deceiving, pleasing Camels spoke to him.

I did not speak their language.

What were his dreams, fears and wishes? Miracles, but

no loaves and fishes.

Nothing will break the barrier of steel and armor

around him,

A king weary from the front lines of his short life's

battles.

And me, the young prince to be, debated with death

before seven years time.

But I'm obligated to his lineage.

A line I cross without his permission

without a compass to map out my future.

Just keep drinking and be merry, for tomorrow he'll be

dead.

Send the fine flock away to fend for themselves.

Silence and sobriety ravage them.

Sodden by tears and held back with fears he will never

know.

One day, I will sit upon the vacant throne,

alone in my one horse town, in need of a trusty steed,

suffering from his handed down sentence.

Memories of him have become clouded with the high

hopes of my brethren.

These primordial sons rise and fall every day,

singing his praises, while digging up the salt of the

earth in search of his fool's gold found in glorious

battles, where he did not meet his maker.

Knowing that he did not want to know me, killed me

daily. It kills me still!

Choking in the life, that he granted me on my last day

in the nether world,

He will haunt me until the next life.

Always sent off to the institutions of necessity,

so my life's subscription can be renewed every year.

Cancer's army crossed the border into his smoke filled

lungs, taking no prisoners.

All these years, now they are finally freed from the

shackles in his brain and brawn.

The pouring rain flooded his reign, bringing an end to

this Father's day.

The pecking order has left me worn down to a shabby

nub,

burnt at the stake, I am a martyr for his forgiveness.

Stuck in my own castle of disbelief and bewilderment,

I sit,

fatigued by my invisible wounds,

left to wonder when his realm will release me.