Hell … hell, many didn’t even finish.
From the streets to the graves,
from being counselors to heading councils.
And I’m proud. Proud that I have them. Proud that most of them found themselves.
But I’d be a damn fool to say that I’m not weary of the ones who haven’t … “yet.”
Like I’m not haunted by the dreams they sacrificed that, eventually, lead them to mentoring me.
Like I don’t fear the ghost stories of changing loyalties
Or tearful honesties.
They’ve hidden hate in their love for me.
They’ve baked poison in this dessert for me.
And they serve it. Knowing they made a mock of what I’m mastering.
It’s insane that we never question why the king never studies the prince.
He’s supposed to already know the crown:
The innocent look he gave it as a boy when his father wore it.
Curiosity. Desire. Respect.
The confident grin he had on his face when it was placed on his head.
Determination. Potential. Respect.
The frustration the squalor had when he polished its gold in front of them.
Arrogance. Trickery. Brashness.
The betrayal his son feels when he refuses to set it upon him.
Hurt. Tyranny. Disrespect.
Well this prince has learned.
Because the knowledge was never in the crown.
It was never in the schools.
It is in the actions, the care, the want to have a legacy more than a reign.
It’s just so unfortunate that some teachers just have the lack thereof.