~ 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.