The Aurora Borealis

He pleads and begs with knees rusty and matted

Feet of vines to soak the fall not bound like his wife's

before Dysentery dragged His sword

into her glowing heart.

A guarded truth of us 

Clashing silvers and golds

Fighting for a diamond value.

Barred by the crown to call upon

Oh my,

the man who rises to the challenge far too quickly

and smiles too long 

contradicts

the heavy weight for a boy

dressed in heels and a skirt

All are plundered by voices from every corner

with all outcomes rising. 

Last night the boy in the heels and skirt

was crying for Bunny

But it doesn't build a nation,

so it doesn't build happiness.

He cried into a golden pillow stuffed with

Premium feathers and hands gripping the silken

fabric without calluses that would have freed him

of the scars his hands cause.

The stairs are wooden and creak like a grandmother's

spine after the noon nap

but without protruding bandages from under

the high-necked, frilly collar; it's nothing a bit

of poisonous "modern beauty treatments"

couldn't fix.

Each step is splintering waves of natures gift

to feel each step of the journey vividly.

She looks down at the crown set upon the hair she

used to ruffle now cut to fit the legacy.

Her veiny hands with spots to conceal and nails

without a chip flex towards the comfort 

like it is nature.

But she keeps standing their with a lovely smile

perfectly pinked and thin

as the boy under the crown looks more and more

like the father and husband and king

who colored everyone's skin like the aurora borealis.

The boy still smiled, but mother wouldn't. 

He kept looking up for her and grabbing for her hand

as if he was two once again but he's got to be or else

that means he's too close to be like his father

the man in red and black who make mother

blue and purple

(and sometimes green)

At some point it became habit to stare forward

and speak without a mumble or stutter or else

the people would drag for more with further force.

Economically, then were rising like never before

with that old man to the left of me making me write

with my right hand who would smile

at those on the carpet before his voice came

to say his thoughts that would feed off of the boys

as if conflict was the fuel to the old man's fire.

The boy looking down at his special

gold and purple outfit

that will one day turn red 

churns his stomach that can't yet hold down

broccoli.