Seven Names

There once was a man with seven names,
They say he lost them all, in shame, to a woman,
Wagered them away in a game of cards, one night,
And he never knew she was the gentle, red Queen,
She who shared the throne of Hearts.


Last in love lament the loss,
The loss of feeling ever-tossed,
On waves of blue, in pools of red,
They say, they say, they lost their heads.



Earl of Victory was the oldest of his monikers,
Given to him by an old, grey King, upon birth,
The Monarch was black, of heart and mind,
Never known to forgive a crime or trespass, his infamy,
He who shared the throne of Spades.



Road to ruin written in rage,
The rage of a wronged child in pain,
Two paths to choose, not one the right,
He says, he says, he lost his head.



In foreign lands, they called him the Good Pride,
He lifted their plague, cured their malady, they sang,
Tasted their wine, and knew their women, they sang,
For he derailed the crimson Jack of the land, they sang,
He who was to take the throne of Diamonds to Hell.



Pine to find the piece in kind,
The kind of mind that seals the deal,
Of black and white, of good and right,
Poor boy, poor boy, he split and died.



In kinder times, he was titled Gray Sky,
After slaying the Black Sun of Shadows,
Then freeing the White Moon of Truth,
For it was written in a book, years back,
That the One of Clubs would seize the day.



“The days, they try — in beds, we lie,
No truth to find, no souls to bind; not three so bright,”
The sage was said to speak in rhyme, he wrote,
But no one knew what words were gold, or
What words were wrong, or blackened soot,
So they burnt him to ash on Tuesday.



I met him once, introduced as Gregory,
His smile was plain, and his face handsome,
Strong in body, sharp in mind — still no good at Chess,
He told me a tale of dragons and flames,
And I thought he was crazy.

“A scaled beast of legendary might, stories tall,
Reigned supreme over all, over his domain of stone,”
Between sentences he sipped ale and spilt —
Which only made the maidens giggle —
And his eyes glazed over with memory and mead,
“He killed my father, and deflowered my mother.”

The maidens wept.



Of course, of course, they shout too loud,
The voices tremor and shake the ground,
“Time is coming, time is coming,”
But nobody cares, nobody cares.



I read the paper, one Sunday, about his deed,
They dubbed him Sir Treachery of the Red Steed,
And condemned him to the humiliation that was due,
Indeed, the task was tarnished with his filthy seed,
He who raped the gentle, red Queen.

The trial was held by the red-faced King,
He swore and screamed and pointed swords,
It was all quite a scene, the peasants gawked,
And he lost his honour, and he lost his glory.

Before the day was done, he was gone,
No maidens wept, their lips were tight,
And he rode on, to escape the light.

I saw him leave, his back to the world,
No longer any grand kind of lord.

He was forgot.



All is right, and all is wrong,
The angels sing their hollow songs,
They tell of heroes, damsels, and battle,
They tell of victory, glory, and mettle,
But, in the end, it’s the stuff of stories,
For no man wins, in life, or love,
Or anywhere.



In secret, to no one’s knowledge, he was He,
A blank name, a blank story, a covered history,
Town to town, he crept in hiding, doing nothing,
Saying no greeting, and making no love,
He who once was so High Above.



Coin of Chance and Loom of Fate,
Turn and weave and turn, for me, of me,
Scribe and paint and write my story, by me,
Destiny in choice, in decision, a provision,
Or a fiction?



At last, he came to be known as Beggar Mizzens,
A silly name, given by children, to a ragged old face,
His hands gnarled and pleading, his face cut and bleeding,
He sat in the garbage, he lived in the rain,
This was the end of the man with seven names.