the taste of victory

her latest battle song sung, the bard
sits back and enjoys
the angry squawking
and sputtering
of her rival, while she partakes
of the epic feast before her,
savoring every bite
as if it were his jealous heart
on a platter.

you’re so repetitive and unoriginal.
try something new,
she hears him mutter.
funny how that didn’t come up
last night, when he was singing
his fiftieth variation on how
she’s just the worst. oh wait,
was there a twist?
perhaps something to the effect of
him also being the worst, while
pretending to be the best, or
was it vice versa?

well, sour sir,
none of these things
are breaking news to anyone
in this land. the town
crier’s throat is sore
from declaring their proclamations
of hate. half the people
wish they’d just shut up about it
already, she’s sure. but
they’re not bards, so
like hens among roosters
they must just listen
as war is declared
a hundred times a day.

she picks the hen’s bones clean, then
picks her teeth with them,
and smiles, knowing she
did something right
to get such a heated
response. the king brings
her another pitcher of mead.
tomorrow she’ll plot
her next move. tonight
to the victress go
her spoils.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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