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This Prince of Silver

carries two scars, like twin thorns
embossed in mother-of-pearl.

This prince of silver
carved his hips into
the sacred wood of a violin,
all hard muscle and f-holes finally desired.

This prince of silver
rings his hair in precious metals,
like shining mail, all the way down
to the newly v-shaped curve
of his core’s sharpness.

This prince of silver
has a thousand names,
and one; the rotten forge from
his mother, and the steel scraps
of the man he finally became.

This prince of silver
came to be in a post-bellum anomaly, between a
two score hatred and a
two score fear, in that gentle place where pride has gone.

Keats once wrote that he saw pale kings
and princes too, pale warriors;
death-pale were they all.
Was Hector, Prince of Troy, pale then,
as the light faded from his eyes-
stolen by another princeling?

This prince of silver
rides to war in a plumed barbute.
Princes are beautiful, carved for war,
just as we were made to withstand the
violence of this century, the ugliness
made untruth.

They make love and war intertwined,
like how god must have felt casting
down his most favoured, most beautiful
son.

This prince of silver
lords over us in dusty rooms and veiled paintings.
He has created in himself an image,
one neither real nor false entirely,
of pictured perfection,
of a prince that was promised.
This prince of silver
has coins for eyes
and twine for lips,
as a reminder of what
the world can do to us
even when we are beautiful.

For a knight is just a prince with armour,
a boygirl with a sword,
a sword made to cut through
those whose stygian gaze holds the taunting weight
against our bodily sovereignty.

This prince of silver
has entered my apoplexy astride
a pale mare. This post-urban,
post-haste premonition laying
his sweet, cold palm on my brow at last.

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