The Plastic Prince

I whiled my days in a jar of pennies

but if you asked me then

I would have told you I ventured far

on the nearness of a felt-tip pen

my steed, as it slumbered next to my jar

aching for the hand that warmed it

normally, telling my stories, forgetting my body

chained in copper, kissed by hundreds

of Presidents Lincoln,

but if you asked me then

I would have said I tamed a jungle

of roses, all entangled

and whispering the history

of the slithering grain

of the wood as it stood still

yet flowed, imperceptibly

perceptible under my plastic feet.

A writer who banked on glass

broke the bank

and set me free from the stillness

of the fairytale, and now I wish I was in it still

as I lie atop this sinking hill of pennies

oxidizing, realizing my escape

though forever clutching flight, lay immobile for all time

half-written, in the deserts of pages

buried under dreams

broken by awakenings.

But if you asked me then

Piccolo_Principe_-_VolaConMigratori

Image by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry – Illustrazioni del Piccolo principe”., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53327195

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