Brenna Connell


He had dirt in his mouth

and dirt in his lungs

and dirt in every crease and crevice of his skin,

but at least it wasn’t sand

because after sixteen years he’d had more than enough

of sand.

So he tossed his blade down

and knelt before the stone-hewn thrones

and spat the blood from his mouth

so he could swear himself to a king and a queen

that were not his own,

but who were the sentinels

guarding the part of a dream 

that he’d never reached

because he always woke before the end.