#6: The Prince
Well mannered and quiet, he walks in the night.
His raiment is neat, his buttons done tight.
Wandering, always he looks to his ring.
He twists it and watches for light’s dancing sheen.
Smoky, gas streetlamps or windows from taverns,
Tailing watchmen and sailors with lanterns.
But sometimes he sits in the truest of dark,
no moon, nor the stars, or any small spark.
The ring he holds tight to his lips and he smiles
A solitude stronger than distance in miles.
His night is spent waiting for first break of day
He turns into a pendant, and ’till night he will stay.
About the Author (Author Profile)
Just a young whippersnapper who's interested in writing. >..<" I do a bit of poetry, and sometimes I write short stories when I have time.Subscribe
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