Work Text:
The Prince and the poet
Would sit in the garden
Young boys, nothing more
A truth
Only heard in whispers
said by the prince behind closed doors
That was his poet
And he was his prince
The Prince and the Poet
The Prince and his Poet
They rest together
His poet, collapsed, lay by his side
Talking of music and angels and heaven
With sun on his face and throat
The Poet spoke softly
“My love, could angels write music that would appease you as much as mine?”
The Prince spoke truthfully to his poet
“The angels could never write a symphony that would mean more to me than any line you have ever written.”
After 20 years the world had split
Many begged for the Prince
Please fight
To ride into battle
Protect the people
Take back what was stolen
As he heard this
The poet set down his pen
And picked up a sword for his prince
The Poet kneeled for his new title
And sitting there in the court
The prince was crying
No devotion had ever been so prevalent
As this boy creative as he was
Becoming a weapon for his prince
And as the Prince had fallen
His poet, collapsed, lay by his side
No words spoken, they knew death
With blood on his face and throat
The Poet spoke softly
“My love, I hope the angels write lyrics for you, more than I ever could”
The Prince spoke truthfully to his poet
“The angels could never write a symphony that would mean more to me than any line you have ever written”