The Slave

The slave hammers the king with a knowing glance,
in the tower a child dreams of freedom.
The jester shuffles with impatience,
the feast is poisoned with despair.

The knife is rusty but effective,
it carves a slice from the queens heart,
the knave chuckles,
the bishop frowns,
the ostler dreams of a pure white mare.

The hag climbs a spiral staircase,
the wind hides in darkened hills,
servants clean an unused room,
candles flicker in a cobwebbed crypt,
the scholar shudders with a premonition of doom.

The king yawns,
the minstrel plays out of key,
mice scurry through rotted walls,
the moon casts a dismal light.

How the chuckle of a stream is lost
in the flicker of a dream,
for words are wraiths,
wisps which bind root to soil,
the past to now.

The slave is naked but for chains,
she remembers earlier, better days,
when butterflies rode on a free breeze,
and clouds belonged to all.