The Dream

There he is, the prince, in his palace, the breathtaking new beginning to architectural renaissance, the most eloquent rendition of love ever built, the reinstatement of glory never lost. There he is, with his princess, the most fluent of the Lord's creations, the most flawless of Nature's beauty, the most entrancing of beings ever known, and unknown. There, he is.


And then, here he is, the prince, in his palace, not the most eloquent rendition of love ever built, but, without doubt, a rendition of, and a witness to, the most expressive, the most ornate, the most immersing love ever shared. Here he is, with his princess, the most precious of his one treasure; to him the most lovely expression of art, the most beautiful of inspirations ever inspired, and uninspired. Here, he is.


There, he, on his bed of roses, with his golden maiden curled around him, long asleep, ethereal as ever, her chin comfortably perched atop his shoulder, her silken hair caressing his rugged beard, her exhalation quenching his chest's thirst for warmth, her slender arm moving with it with his every breath. There, he,  on his bed of roses, staring into the golden dome, questioning the diamond chandeliers, searching his soul.


And then, here, stretched across his bed, with his golden maiden, long asleep, her face turned away from him, never once touching, feeling; depriving him of love once eternal. Here he is, lying wide awake, on his bed, not much more than a hammock, staring into the sky through the many, and the only avenues of light in this palace of his. Here he is, staring into the sky, questioning the fading stars, searching his soul.


There, he, in all his grandeur, leaping onto his extravagantly embellished equine, taking off to war, to victory, to vindication; leaving his lover behind, taking her love along. There he is, executing her wish, annexing all neighbouring territory, making the princess of his heart the princess of the world. There he is, warring for her ambition, fighting for her love, searching for himself.


Here, he, in his ivory armour, brave warrior of his under siege kingdom, taking off to war, to a probable death, to redemption; leaving his lover behind, taking his love along. Here he is, looking to her for a farewell, for a possibly last expression of her love, for a probably last chance to express his. Here he is, warring for his country, fighting for his love, searching for himself.


There, he is, the roaring lion, the battlefield his own, fighting, killing the 'enemy', searching his soul; seeing his own die, searching his soul; fighting on nevertheless, for his lover, for her love…


Here, a warrior no less, fighting, killing the 'enemy', searching himself; getting hurt, searching himself; fighting on nevertheless, for redemption, for another chance to his love…


Here he is, the last warrior, standing, fighting, flailing, failing…Here he is, closing his eyes the last time, seeing her face in the horizon, the overhead sun blinding his eyes, he, struggling no more to get up or to live, just to have one last look to the horizon. He knows she's coming, to him, he knows she loves him, he knows it; he sees her, in the horizon. He sees her, he breathes, he closes his eyes, one last time…


There, the prince, in his palace, the most eloquent rendition of love ever built, the reinstatement of glory again glorified. And there she is, his princess, the most fluent of the Lord's creations, the most flawless of Nature's beauty, the most entrancing of beings ever known, and unknown; in the arms of another. There he is, victorious, vindicated, winner of the war for her ambition, the fight for her love. And there she is, giving her self, and his love, away. There he is, the lord of the world, suddenly losing everything that mattered.


There they are, the prince, the princess, looking at each other, each searching the other.


There they are, looking at each other. . .the last time. He, drawing his sword. . .the last time.




There, he was; here, was his dream.


The dream he would die to live, and live to die.