The Boy Who Lived

Black hair, a messy typhoon encircling his head.
white skin, marred with dirt, sweat, grime, and blood.
a redness, a lightning-bolt, stands out in stark relief against the skin of his forehead.
Green, emerald eyes, so like his mother’s stare back at you
Into you
Filled with the passing of difficult years,
a child grown quickly into a man.
fighting for survival

His clothes
Dirty, rank, bloodstained, ratty
have stood the test of time
of wear and tear
As he does what he can to survive
Just so he can die

He thinks of his friends
the people he’s just left behind
the people who have died for him and their rights

He wonders
once he’s gone
Will the oppressor be gone as well?
Who will do this deed?

The stone he just dropped
slipped from his hand
fell, hidden in the depths of the Forest.
He is surrounded by his family
As he walks
Walking to his destiny

He knows at this point he will not survive
a prophecy set this in stone
long ago
By a spectacled, bug-eyed woman
He looked into those woman’s eyes four years ago
Heard the prophecy himself.

He knows
He is aware, very aware
that he will not survive
His eyes are tired

Emerald green, just like his mother’s

They hold peace as he faces the oppressor.

Peace will come.

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