King of Syracuse.

Photo by Febiyan

Birthday poem. I am not the King of Syracuse, but this poem is full of riddles, with answers unknown.

Thank You!

“Blooming flower on the sidewalk.”

Mirror mirror on the wall,
poster stuck to a wooden door,
pride left shuttered on the floor
fingers twisting the handle
of the radio below.

It’s slippery and wet
from the fallen midnight tears,
butterfingers pressing buttons
to resupply the salty liquid.

Like ocean water,
calming hallucinogenic pill
or meditation of deceit,
fools treat, spoiled meat
on the feast
of my forgotten adolescence.

Superstition, silhouettes,
playing violin and rock,
shifting heavy boulder
off my breathing chest.

Hallelujah, Syracuse,
I have arrived,
holding a golden goblet,
precious liquid spilling off the edge
as I bow and offer,
to the King who doesn’t drink,
but speaks in riddles
for the lonely widows.

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