The prince wants to become the king.
He looks at his old man
feigns grief and anguish
as the hired assassin plunges
the dagger
into his old man’s flesh.

Thus he rises to the throne.

After many years, the prince grows bored.
He’s waged war, found sovereignty, raised an heir…
What left is there to do?

He sees himself as a warrior, fighting the holy battle,
his soul an extension of his blade
his blade an extension of his soul
he thrusts his mental blade at those he crosses.

It is not enough for him.

The coliseum is readied.
The prince walks in.
The warrior walks in.

The warrior looks at the prince
feigns a thrust of his blade
as he plunges
his fist
into the prince’s jaw.

Thus the prince asks the warrior to spare his life.
But the prince is no longer a prince.
He is a warrior.
So the warrior waits for the prince,
to shed his skin and stand up.

He does.
And then he isn’t.
A blade, thrust through his belly
an extension of himself, marks the ground as red
and so the prince dies and the king rises from his grave
to thank the warrior,
to re-take his throne,
from the prince who was once a king.

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