~ by Elijah David

A man’s life is not his own

When all the world rewrites his story –

The tales we tell, the seeds we’ve sown

Twisted for another’s glory.

I’d have been an obedient son, a noble nephew

And never left my rightful place,

But Monmouth opened his mouth to spew

Unseemly treacheries – treason – Absalom-faced

Debauchery – as though rebellion and a throne’s

Usurpation went not far enough afield!

The marriage bed too! Then came other woes – a crone

For a mother, no loyal sister more. Now she yields

Loathing, vengeance, and ignoble conception

For brother and son. And in such villainy do I now revel –

They precurse me to Machiavelli and give me a Brutus’ reception –

Or a Christ’s. Does not my uncle-father-uncle

Name himself a Herod in my birth and their deaths?

Those lonely unfortunates, confederate only by the stars

Of their birth. How they would rise up on the wind’s breath

Not to avenge themselves on Arthur – but on the authors

Who so callously slay them to craft in me

Mordred. Bastard. Fiend. What evil did I wreak

In my dam’s womb – what perfidy

Conceive that I should be cast so? Weak

Unlawful cowardice it is. I’ll not cease

To strive for better. With each new

Verse and tale my chance comes – a new lease

To become the man God made – a knight loyal and true.