The City of Triton

By , Toronto, Canada
I once knew a desert country named Arsinia
and its capital city named Triton.
The city offered perfect protection
against the barking chimeras
who preyed fiercer than a pack of wolves
and the howling dust storms
which raged whenever The Gods dueled
in their sacred desert.
But for humans, Triton was a sanctuary.
I think there might’ve been an
oasis in Triton too.
But it’s been a while now.
Nonetheless, Triton was a magical place,
given to me by the son of a postman.
And immediately, I fell in ‘love’,
whatever love meant to a ten year old boy.
But words could not describe how the
city blocks were eternally haunted by
that lively spectre of the bazaar:
“Two for one, folks! Two for one!”
or the happy smile of
the lemon shop owner
who markets his merchandise
as gold medallions.

I also remember the rare moments when,
even I, a lowly traveller, could meet the
King in his palace.
His palace was so beautifully decorated
with only the shiniest crystals
in all of Arsinia.
And, as I walk by Prospect Avenue,
I could smell
the boredom of the hated head
executioner on the hanging grounds
who perpetually wielded
his black scythe with black hands
equipped with fingerless gloves.
Today is a slow day for him again, I guess.

The later events only invoke
a cold-blooded Fear.
Every time I am reminded of them,
Joy plummets to suffering.
I can still recall how my heart
sank to an unprecedented abyss;
It was my first true moment of Fear
when I was summoned to
look at my guilty black hands and face
the bloodstains that I caused and
those that I refused to see on
the Prospect Avenue hanging grounds.

Of course, I am much older now.
Gone is the tendency to fantasize about
how Triton would be the grave of
my tormentors and my enemies.
But the beautiful smiles
of cheerful denizens have been
amputated from my conscious.
That happy feeling from when I entered
Triton’s gates is forever lost.

The desert, to me, could never
be more than sand on a Playground.
The raging sandstorms could never
be more than my tormentors kicking
sand in my direction.
The crystal palace and its King could
never be more than the collection
of white quartz that I mined
so meticulously from the sand.

I didn’t deserve the gift of Triton.
My friend was wrong when he gave
it to me to explore and explore responsibly.
But today The executioner is working.
Nonetheless, and the days are
no longer slow. All of Triton’s citizens
wait on the death row in the prison
of my Memory.
There may be sparks of hope on occasion.
But hope is sometimes deadly.
My hope that I could, one day,
exact revenge lead to tragedy and buried
my lovely people in the sands of time.
Much like how Ozymandias’ ambition
Withered him to two legs of stone.





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