He sat down near the lifeless body,
The stained blade boasting justice.
“What say you now?”—his vengeful scream
Was met with utmost silence,
The corpse defying him even now
With eyes as empty as his carcass.
His hardened gaze then fell upon
His trembling hands. He smirked.
“Look what you’ve made me do. Am I
Finally worthy?”—Silence.
He stood tall, pacing endlessly,
His footsteps ever condemning.
The marble floor, the white-tiled walls
All seemed to shrink and trap him.
He fought off claustrophobic thoughts,
Adrenaline still pumping
Through crimson blood—his real fault.
He knew then: “I’m still lacking.”
He came to a halt as sudden as
His urge from moments earlier,
When he had plunged the silver blade
Into the tender flesh of
The one who’d deemed him not enough,
Not now and never has been.
He turned to grab the mocking corpse,
Wanting to wipe off its proud smile,
The proof that he was lacking.
“Shut up!” he roared. The small, grey eyes
As cold as ever. He was sure:
Even in death he had disowned him.
“What use your noble blue blood now?”
He kicked the lifeless limbs. Silence.
“You bleed like commoners. Like me.”
He dipped his fingers in the crimson blood
Of the unmoving figure on the ground.
He let out a defeated laugh:
“You’ve won again, Father.”
– Patricia
Da Capo al Poetry 