Servant's Blood Means Nothing

D. A. Giehl

Wrinkled fingers nearly numb

I grip the wooden brush's handle

and lean forward to scrub again.

I've been working all day

with no reprieve

for my protesting shoulders.

Yet I'm nearly finished

I can almost see myself in the

slick puddle on the marble tile

servant's cloak and matted, dirty hair

falls ragged 'round my worn face.

I look older than I should.

Torchflames crackle behind me

carried by the crowned one.

The prince, my master dear.

Features gleaming, admiration apparent

"Good," you tell me, "Beautiful."

I bite my rebellious tongue until

I taste its metallic, salty punishment.

You see nothing of me-

only my work and how wonderfully

your gold-trimmed robes will shine

against my polished marble floors.

Or perhaps you see your reflection,

my perfect prince,

reflected in my blank eyes.

You turn and stride away

royal robes trailing

like your worshipping disciples.

I fight the demons in my throat

for they will only scream my sin

and hatred to your back.

Blood falls from my lips

to the near-clean floor.

Perhaps I should cut it out,

that bleeding, traitorous tongue,

and save myself from uttering

these vile thoughts of you.

I must return to my drudgery now.

The wet floor greets me, mocking.

And there's my reflection again

staring back at me

spattered with the blood

I wish was yours.

For servant's blood means nothing.

---

End Note: Yes, more servants! This is the only poem I wrote for Creative Writing that I have the guts to post here. I'm no poet--I'm one of them prose-writers. Yet I had fun with this, and it's the best out of the few poems I was forced to write in there... so here it is. Don't be too harsh.

Thank you for reading, and please review!