Pockmark Son

The pain white stare of colorless scars, the deathly pallor under imprisoned arms. Tied wrists of power, keeping him locked in clear plain view, of the blood stained flower. The poisoned lily; his mother’s gift, doused in loving crimson, afloat and adrift. Her voice forgotten, her eyes become his; their words mounted in still memory of what they missed. Missed chances, missed hope, missed paths that now only show- a deep caving light of a bottomless hole. The white emptiness of space, making sure the boy feels completely alone.

The impeccable coat, so pressed and stark, willing to show every stain, every mark. But still white it is, like innocence, feigned and kept hidden under deep red hands. Hands of his father, eyes of his mother, until the green Mako develops and clears over, the emotion and love now suppressed and stored. Will he use it again, he doubts as he closes the door. His father lies dead; cross hairs from the ordered core. The power is his, everything collected and nothing amiss. Except his mother, now dead and gone. Except the love of a father who only smiled once. The price steeping, young Wutai weeping, drenched in the blood ordered from those deep red hands.

A sparkling white fear of his own creation, a weapon of dire connotation- the rough exterior battling nearer, until the red hands leave what he could only fear. A flash, a noise, life almost destroyed and the wine colored print shown for the very first time in lime-poisoned eyes. His body dying, the world flying, wondering what everything was meant for. He stops, his body drops safely in Wutai arms. The same arms his commanding voice destroyed. But amidst the pain, a magnanimous song parts within the president’s cold steel heart. And with his life forgotten, the scars heal from imprisoned arms.