The Blue-Flecked King

The Blue-Flecked King lay down his pelvic horns
and sat in his throne with a sigh.
“Tough job being King”, the King delivered.
“Keeping track left and right
attending to dame and knight
keeping details, no oversight,
knowing the needs of all the peeps,
guess everyone’s wishes
be accountable for your deeds,
by them, by thee, by me.”

“Tough job, being King, indeed.”

He looked at his pelvic horns,
antlers, both, big and strong
multibranched, with skilled engravings.

The King was strong, authoritative too.
He doubled as a jester
with those plumes of blue.
A few here and a few there,
enough for people to notice,
not too many, not too bare
never enough not to dare.

Ah, how he loved his feathers.
Ah, how he loved his plumes.
They had been a concession
upon being appointed King.
He was very grateful
to his audience and his kin.
Whenever he saw them
his mind would calm.
Whenever he saw them
he felt no alarm.
A deep peacock blue,
they reminded him of freedom,
of pride,
of dignity,
of flights, to nowhere and beyond.

He felt the weight of Kingship.
He did. But what could he do?

He was the jester and the king
the slayer and the slain
the monster and the lamb.

He was what he was
He was, also, the Blue-Flecked King.



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