The Coming Prince

Into waiting hands anticipation drips
cursive hints curling against shifts pained
shapes resent, windowless chambers fingers lace
in an embrace until new day breaks.

This work suffers no hesitation, like death
waits for no one, represents two lips
filled with sacred sayings the silence explains,
wastes no time making insinuate

seemingly innocuous claims elusive
sinister things the space between breaths
pauses to think. Resenting apprenticeship
tempts to the brink experiences

representing nights better spent, learn to strip
and you earn every cent. Solace

eventually returns to them, hearts ripped
by their torment. Those whose discontent
borrows against embittered tomorrows place
trust in him, stake on some saviour fates

wagering with gods contend will win at all.
This competition is one which pits
without any shred of pity sin and soul
and sinner in the ring. Cycling takes

as its toll a vacant life’s absent mind, tips
until spiralling out of control
his or her sense of right and wrong. How scent rips
up the rule book’s fragrance, aftertaste

of onion breath on the skin sweat exposes
to an audience’s imbalance.