The Cottonmouth King
The Cottonmouth King
I, The Cottonmouth King creep
out from under my rock;
I penetrate the depth of your soul
Blood runs on damp streets
claiming another life
Drama tastes of bitter swallows,
escaping from guillotine’s wrath,
staining your Sunday best, pressed and altered
to fit within my diary
I sing of how you were living…
and soon about your death
And as that book begins,
blank sheets reach grasping
for each of your helpless breaths beyond
every ordained happiness,
awaiting inked fallacies and whims
in my words, I spew lies
and claim them to be truth…
And lo before this congregation
I pledge only truth,
for dishonest cretins carry the weight
of every living being pushed to the recess of thoughts
if it is chosen to disagree,
then it can not be…
breath amongst death
Smiles where hatred awakens
from the deepest sleep,
yawning democracy claims
its fortunes in large swaths,
taking land and dreams in between fence lines
and rock face walls
surrounding gardens, plentiful,
ripe with flavor for my picking
I stand as the new ruler,
squaring off with witnesses who cry foul,
who slander my truth
amidst thankless gestures not seen,
not heard, not felt coming from shadows,
long and low, moving swiftly, silently
between unsuspecting feet, tethering ankles,
laughing at the falling, finding great joy
in the pain sustained, great joy…and it shall be
For be it known to all, this power
shall fill my basket with bread,
with apples and pears,
and I shall eat my fill while you look on,
feeling the emptiness carve streams
in your stomachs, caverns of doubt will open
and you will believe…you will believe
No choice will be given,
for this land, once fruitful and teeming
with harvest has dried up, parched,
as the rains find solace in another area,
far west of this eastern capital,
stands barren, desolate, depleted
except for a small opening
beneath a smooth stone,
a hole in the earth,
where I patiently wait in silence
for the return of my truth
Warnings posted will weather
and rot in time,
falling to the deserted sands,
leaving nothing but a post and nails,
heads rusted off, dripping the wood,
slithering along insect trails,
curving to dust, weeping of a beginning
to a another book, another chapter, another page
which remains blank…for now
For you see…I have yet to write it,
I am the Cottonmouth King
6/26/17
For the “Create a character” poetry contest
Sponsored by Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017
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