A Ballad for my Captor

Transcript:

I won you in a bet with a lion;
     you should thank me,
   for he did not appreciate you
                 as I do.

He bought you from a beggar
   for a sly grin and a snarl
(he always makes those kinds of deals),
        and took you to his den,
  only to leave you on a shelf,
      where you rested,
                  empty and hollow.

Under circumstances quite precarious,
    I met you there—
   —in that lion's den—
where I prepared to become empty and hollow
        for you.
I was strolling the city before a heavy storm
that could have filled the city to its brim
when a prowling shadow approached me
and inquired through tooth and fang
how I had become so lost.

"Don't know," I said,
and he grinned:

"Come to my den," the shadow said,
"and I will make you warm."

The city was soon to flood,
and I would soon catch cold and death—
yet, my mother always told me
not to trust shadows that come from alleyways,
as this one now did.

The creature revealed itself:
golden, with prideful jaws
and eyes filled with greed and hunger
that fed more on sadism than fodder.
This creature was the lion,
city-famed, renowned and widely feared,
whose ill-reputation persuaded me
to search harder for escape—
—maybe I could find a retreat,

                back down the streets,
                through the alley,
                safe from the coming flood,
                to some place—any place!—
                        where lions
                        only ate other lions,
        and happily left me alone.

But, I had no escape
        from the lion
          or the coming flood
   so, reluctantly, I agreed
        —as no one can truly refuse a lion—
   and followed him to his den,
                where I met you.

The den, of course, was hidden
—you and I already knew that—
smoke obscured the outside,
   so no one could discover his lair;
objects littered the walls and floors inside,
   all obtained in moments of caprice
                                and malice.

                This is where we met
                         —remember?—
                    you waited on his shelf
                        for me—
                               empty, hollow and aged,
                because he didn't care for you
                                as I now do.

The lion gave me a tour of his home,
        so very proud of his possessions,
    and shared with me where he kept
             some of the world's greatest secrets.

He prized the faces of all the things he ate,
   and kept them in
        a toy box he got from I don't know where.
    He threw the bones away because
"A structure without spirit will always fall,"
                                he said.

A magpie would make its nest in his abode—
        if it could find the place;
and the magpie would happily pay rent—
        if it weren't afraid
                        of prowling shadows.

Crystals and baubles,
gold and jewels,
antiques and heirlooms—
he was a dragon
that delighted in all of his treasure—
except for you.

The lion told me his story
        about the beggar,
        and how you were,
                upon acquisition,
empty and hollow—
                and barely worth
                        shelf space.

I asked why he still kept you,
        and he replied:
               "At first,
        when it failed to impress me,
        it was simply a placeholder—
                for a future memory
                that I would one day own—
it would stand for all things I ever wanted.
                Then, I realized
                that was not meant to be,
                so I cherish this thing
                        for all that it is not."

He showed me the rest
of his collection of everything,
until the storm had passed.

I looked to him and mentioned
that the storm was over,
and that I would like to leave.

                 Then,
                        dread
                met in measure by
                        the lion's delighted expression
                   warned me:
             my life was in peril.

   "I will not let you leave
as I have never collected something...
                                so alive
                        ever before."

"But, I must leave!
—the flood has passed,
and you've kept me warm,
as promised."

"Did I neglect to say:
   I also meant to keep you?"
  The lion grinned
    and swished his tail.
  Taunting me with sharp teeth.

I cut to the chase:
"What would you have of me?"

"I would keep you, of course, as my pet,
    'til you withered and died.
    Then, I will eat your flesh
    and keep your face
                as a reminder
        of the serendipity of our encounter."

Being no fool,
   I knew I could not escape,
   and I had nothing to give,
   so I thought to offer
        more than I had.

"Can we make a trade?"
I stuttered, hesitant.

"My wealth far exceeds your own;
I am nobility to your peasantry—
what could you ever offer?"

"My compliance," I said,
and the lion's ears perked.
"You can consume part of me—
at your leisure—
—and I will watch."

After a brief moment of consideration,
        he replied:
"A trade is far too simple;
  We will make this a game:
         —if I win, I will keep you
                until you bore me,
        and then I will eat your limbs up
                        as you watch.
    But," he paused.

"If you win, you may leave."

"My life is not enough," I argued,
"Let me take that as well!"
I pointed to you,
in hopes to gain your freedom
and mine.

         "Why?"
   the lion queried,
" —there is nothing interesting about it!
        And I should know—
               I bought it.

"You might think that,
but neither the beggar,
nor I,
agree with you;
there is a mystery to it
that I will unravel."

"Very well,"
the lion declared,
"But know that now the stakes are raised:
        If I win, I will eat all of your life and limbs,
                        as I make you watch.
        And if you win, you may take yourself
                and that thing with you."

He gently plucked a die between his teeth,
        and placed it in a cup,
                        then knocked it over
                                        with a swipe of his paw,
                                                        to roll and hide the die.

"Call it: even or odd!
        Choose right, your life you'll have
                 —and that thing, too—
Choose wrong, your life I'll have
             —and your flesh you'll lose."

The lion swished his tail impatiently,
and stretched his claws,
kneading the carpet, urging my decision.

I paused, I cautiously thought
and considered what kind of trap he brought—
within his web of cunning and sadism
I refused to be caught.

Dice are random,
but my choice was not
so I deliberated
whether it was rigged to be even
or odd.

The lion licked his jaws as he watched for my resolve
to bend,
to waver,
to break under the pressure of this game's bite.

"Even or odd," he groaned.

                I tried to remember
                and scoured my memory:
                What numbers had I seen on the die
                before he trapped it beneath the cup?

                        I drew a blank
                        and could not recall
                        if each side was unique
                        or one number covered them all.

"Even or odd," he groaned,
"or surrender to become my pet."

                I resigned that my decision
               would have no rationale;
                it was up to chance
                whether I be living or dead.

                        Yet—
                if I chose even over odd,
                and I became his death-bound pet,
                odd would have saved,
                and I would have won his bet.

        This was neither fortune nor fate acting alone,
                        but both together,
                complicating my decision
        and loudening the lion's groan.

"Even or odd, even or odd!" the lion snarled.

        I started, then stuttered,
        stammered, then muttered
        as I collected myself and finally uttered:
                                         "Odd."

           The lion lifted the cup,
        and we both gazed beneath;
    for a moment, we were equals—
                     wishing and hoping
                    for our own success,
          at the expense of each other's.

"Odd," he declared in dismay,
and so your freedom, and mine, had been won;
unless, of course,
the rules of the game had changed.

I worried that the lion
might go back on his word
    (because my mother always told me
                never to trust a lion)
        but the lion surprised me and said,
"I will not betray my word—
I have too much pride for that."

                This is when I touched you,
                        gingerly;
                                I touched you,
                        sweetly;
                as I removed you from his shelf,
                        and wiped the dust off you,
                                gently.

He beckoned me with his eyes,
        and I didn't dawdle;
                I hurried to follow him,
                        as he led me—
                                us—
                        out of his lair.

        Without a word, he left us,
And you and I were gone from that place,
        and we found ourselves in a damp city—
                        (it could have been dry, but I never
                                        would have noticed)
                where I explored you,
                                to learn your secrets.

You may have wanted to thank me
                for being heroic—
                        I did save you—
        but don't;
                it's too late—
                it was always too late—
                                        for heroism.

It's been years since I
        saved you,
   and I have come closer
                to understanding the beggar's insight
                        by becoming him.

The city is now my (our) home,
        and the sky is my roof—
        and although it's quite leaky—
                        we're together,
                                you and I.

                                I have learned
        that you are not what you first seemed;
        you are not the shiny decorative exterior,
        nor the smooth, sometimes bitter blood—
                        those simply obfuscate you
                                        (the real you)
                                from everyone else
                                                but me.

I only find you when I remove
   the blood from your prison—
                clean it up
           (but, it's best not
                to simply pour and waste)—
                        and when I've found you,
                                it is always a sad,
                            sobering experience.

I've made it my mission,
        to rescue you
from each and every glass castle.
                But, it's too late,
                       like I've said,
                     for heroism;
        I hardly remember your rescues anymore,
   beyond the very first.

                Still,
        none care for you
                        as deeply as
                                I do.

I am yours;
I am not my own.

Now,
like the lion,
I groan in impatience,
        waiting for someone to come along,
                                so I can snarl,
                        and trade a sly grin
                                for some happiness.
        But, to you,
                        I am faithful
                                                to you alone.

        Each expedition to free you
                has become slower,
                less resolute,
                yet not less fervent—
                        because each time I meet you,
                        I know that I'm staring at the end.

        Now,
Like the lion,
   I stretch my claws;
Like the lion,
   I wish I had chosen
                   even
              over odd.