The Royal Prisoner: A Tale from the Dungeon’S Depths

By S.R. Christian

The Royal Prisoner tells a story of betrayal and loyalty, lust for power and vows of revenge portrayed in striking poetic rhythms. Years have passed since everything was taken from himhis family, his home, his freedom. Imprisoned for turning his back on his king, the sovereign of the land, the prisoner vows to escape his imprisonment to fulfill one last debt to his family and to himselfto murder the king in cold blood. The Royal Prisoner delves into his dark world of adventure and torture, revealing his final tale through a collection of narrative poems. What evolves is a poetic saga that follows the prisoner from the lonely, dark world of his prison cell to the bright world where he rightly belonged.

Welcome to the dungeons depths,
where bone-chilling claws unclench
beneath the royal rugs unfurled.
Above the cherished, enchanted pearls,
you lie chained by wrists on a vertical bed,
your back on cold stones, stewing in dread.
Like many before you and like many beside,
you wait for your doom when heads severed from hide.
But this is your price, your reward for your crimes,
youve been condemned to hot flames rather than blessed white chimes.
You call out to echoes, preaching tales of loyalty,
of how your deeds were soul-good; its release shouldnt be fee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462033522

S.R. Christian

In 2008, S. R. Christian was published in the anthology Solitute: A Look at New Canadian Poetry and has been published since, both for his poetry and short stories. This is his first published collection of works. He resides in the Canadian prairies, where he lives with his dog, Ghost Wolf.

Book preview

The Prisoner’s Reflections

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The Royal Cell

Welcome to the dungeon’s depths,

where bone-chilling claws unclench

beneath the royal rugs unfurled.

Above the cherished, enchanted pearls,

you lie chained by wrists on a vertical bed,

your back on cold stones, stewing in dread.

Like many before you and like many beside,

you wait for your doom when head’s severed from hide.

But this is your price, your reward for your crimes,

you’ve been condemned to hot flames rather than blessed white chimes.

You call out to echoes, preaching tales of loyalty,

of how your deeds were soul-good; its release shouldn’t be fee.

But your cries only stir moaners who beg,

and beggars who moan, claiming pain’s privilege.

And only the deserving are those who hang still,

quiet but determined, faith a test of their will.

But you strive for your shouts, now revealing your anger;

‘I didn’t do this! I acted only in honour!’

Your petty voice is hoarse. Is this true justice?

Your thoughts surface from despair. This is what trust is?

Ironically, your torment evokes a strange bliss

of memories that anchor sanity from being dismissed.

Your life was once worthwhile, simple but true.

Your conscience was moral-guided, and happiness ruled.

Your eyes rim with wetness as you remember your loss.

The remorse you feel now is the worst of crime’s cost.

Abruptly your voice quits, your head limply droops,

your shaking transitions to trembles; you brood.

Your emotion is depressed, your optimism broken—

a fool to trust that your king’s word would hold token!

But now you know nothing, no thoughts can trespass.

Your morals are shot; your soul cracked its last breath.

You wait for your doom, for departure, release.

For this royal cell offers no hope, only grief.

You, the Bounty Hunter

You cry out in joy,

arms wide, smile proud.

A child runs forward,

her head held high, her laugh loud.

You embrace her as she nears—

a cherished bonding of love.

Your daughter’s confusion is apparent

but dismissed with a shrug.

She’ll never understand—

at least that’s what you hope—

never be tied down

with the vile king’s rope.

The setting was evening,

with little light from the sun.

You hold her at arm’s length;

oh, how her face resembles her mom!

‘How beautiful you are,’ you say,

‘And I will never forget,

but right now I must leave you

to collect another’s grave debt.’

Your child’s head tilts,

showing her internal questions,

but you cannot answer now;

they’re too shameful to mention.

How did you get here,

to live this sore existence?

Your honed skills were meant for good …

Not to carry forth penance.

But your king—damn his soul!—

the one you believed hallowed,

he and his hegemony forced you

to bring on justice most foul.

And you drank in his words,

motivated at first

to become a man of renown,

bring your family’s name some gold worth.

But you were a fool

to believe that royal justice was just!

To believe that your leader

acted of necessity, not lust!

You were blinded by sanguinity;

your skills were too great.

Your bane was upon you

before you saw your mistake.

Now, with your child staring at you,

your knife at your side,

the profound frown on your lips

is the only hint of your lies.

For you could not speak the truth,

not to this innocent child so cherished.

Such brutality would scar her, break her,

cause her to perish.

You force a dull smile.

‘Tell your mother I’ll