Bones to Bake My Bread
I was the final descendant, the last of my kind.
Our bones were built of bread, our enemies in tiny
Bits in our bellies, their taste bitter.
“That’s the way of war,” my father once said.
But his corpse crumpled, fell stumbling to the
Crowds below, crushing his killers.
I hated his death, they did not deserve his fury.
The final solution festered in my mind, fight or
Flee, the land falling forfeit.
I abandoned my earth, and won the empty sky.
I grew large and loathsome there, in my coward’s fortress.
Poor with the plenty that I had
Piled for myself, I found little peace.
My only solace was tradition, what I could remember.
“Sing,” I said to the servant, and she knew which
Song that I meant, so she submitted.
But the verses were hollow, she couldn’t truly sing them.
Maybe the meaning was lost, once my enemies were
Mists under my mansion, making undeserved merry.
I was once a general, then only the gold-keeper.
They sent a scout to find me, I could tell they had.
Laughing aloud, my legs quickly learned how to
Live again, my loathing like adrenaline.
I could smell my enemy, I couldn’t fly again.
Revenge that ravaged my reason, it made me
Remember why my father died, and I craved redemption.
My earth reached its vines to me, it welcomed me home.
In falling, I became my dad’s undeserved
Duplicate, gaining dignity in death.
He crushed my bones, but did not make bread.
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