It seems the eyes of the world
are upon you today.
(they always are, the people,
no, your people, have always loved you;
the golden one, the eldest son,
the favorite, the…
well, they know what you are.
Nobody’s ever let you forget.)
You smile at the man beside you,
throw your arm around his shoulder,
look the part of the supportive brother
for long enough.
(Even without words,
he knows what you’re really saying.
Better luck next time.
The pomp and circumstance may be for him,
but the people are here to see you.)
Then you go back to showing off,
because the people want you.
They love you.
(And you know exactly how
to play the crowd.
The crowds are your kingdom,
and here, you rule. You know exactly
what to say and do to make them cheer
your name, and only your name.)
You give them a broad wave
and a smile,
conscious the whole time
of how the sunlight and shadows
play across your body,
careful to stay in the best light.
(You know you’re beautiful,
but it doesn’t hurt to remind
them of that. And plus, it doesn’t
hurt if it makes them look,
just a little longer.)
And they roar. The common
people cheer for a man they barely
know anything about. Only that
he’s brilliant, and beautiful,
and captivating. They can’t take their eyes
off you. They know they should look at him,
but they look at you. They look at you.
(The nobility never looked
at you that way, never really forgot
where you came from. You don’t
care though. You carry within you
the blood of kings and you would trade
their approval in a heartbeat for
a single cheering crowd)
You honestly don’t know
what you would do without this.
The energy, the rush, the pulse of the crowd,
it’s more intoxicating than the finest vintage,
more wonderful than sweet perfumed skin,
perhaps even better than your own reflection.
You’d give up everything,
wine, women, everything,
to feel like this all the time,
like you’re flying and never have to come down,
like you’re untouchable, can do no wrong.
(It’s almost enough to make you forget
that you’re no king.
Only a bastard prince.)