He was two things at once: a noble boy,
an agéd man as well, of noble birth,
who lost all of the things he could enjoy—
forgot the dignity of his own worth.
And worth had brought him somewhere—very far—
he had become a very fine old man;
but sadness is a heavy foe to spar,
so soon he was right where it all began.
And he forgot the Princely Crown he wore.
It fell off as he sought what made him feel.
And as he held his heart—so sweet, so sore—
he knew not what was hope, and what was real.
And so the old man was a little child,
and so nobility, itself, reviled.
~~~
You held joy in your hand—your open hand—
and looked at it as if a butterfly,
as if upon you it would always land—
as if it lands on any passing by.
But you held it, not others, did you see?
You held what we held not, and held the eyes
of all us passing, watching desperately
to see if we would know the same surprise.
We wouldn’t. Yet you then pretended pride
in what you had accomplished—what you’d done.
What you’d done? Joy the butterfly had spied
your hand, and not the victories you’d won.
You mocked us, saying what you had was earned,
instead of sharing with the souls that yearned.