The Lone Lover of Ferris O'Carrick {REMASTERED}

When I was younger, for a time, I found myself entwine,

in a collection of stories writ and bind by John F.

(a potential mastermind.)

He wrote within boxes, but did not suffer. (in most occasions,) but there was other.

The sneaks were clever, the knights were loud, the barons were fat and the kings were proud. Horses were sarcastic and girls were tough, old matrons were wise and men were gruff.

And the villains! always, I’d say, handsome traitors or devious invaders, some would go on to repent or to earn favors, but most t’would die, (in many flavors.)

A duel is common, an arrow as well, a fire took one, but a bolt two felled.

It seemed when I read, that I was also pinned to throne. Instant and unfeeling, and with a disappointed groan. Ferris, the fool, died as he lived, a cowardly shell of his superior twin.

I have fought tooth and nail for him, I have shouted and screamed. But forgotten, I have been it seems. I have dueled seven at once, all for the man to whom disregard is a must. The highest point in my crusade, a doodle of he and my cat.

My Ferriswheel, the pitiful man, he was fat and hateful, and terribly afraid, he did not want to die, and died all the same. Listen then, as I have yet moved past, this still another attempt to hold him fast:

We know nothing of him in the fifty pages that he lives,

twice we see him, once is dead,

he is an old man, filled with dread,

will not look another in the eye,

in fear that they will see his lie.

he has not wife, nor child,

his nephew is heir,

Sean seems to be the only for whom he may care,

He uses his power without regard,

Upon his nation, he leaves his name marred.

He was a terrible king, and worse brother,

(Though, he didn’t have another)

but who is Ferris? Who could he be?

We hear of his thirst, and see him flee,

there is no box for Ferris, cept for his hearse.

Halt, (his twin), says to the knight, that his brother was cunning and dangerous and bright, that Ferris was favored prince of the land, for his smiles and laughter and skill and his hand, but where is the Ferris that Halt did know? Did he die on that day when he ceased to row?

By seven minutes lost, the race for birth, Ferris was second, and Halt was first, Halt, the ranger who lurks in the dark, who deals not with strangers unless they his mark.

Is it strange to think, or hard to imagine, what Ferris might have thought? His brother, the quiet and reflective lot, what king he’d make, and Ferris forgot.

Is it not tragic to think of one born as two, at first so close, then so few? How old do you think, was Ferris when learned, to hate his brother, whose affection spurned?

Do you think that when Halt grew ill, Ferris stayed near, with at least what appeared a loving veneer?

Do you think that when Halt, lay wounded in bed, Ferris sat by, and rested his head?

Do you think that when Halt braided their sister’s hair, Ferris brought flowers to be placed there?

Do you think that when Halt began to advance, to become silent and muscled- when he suddenly shifted from shy to tussled? What he thought then, when his equal enhanced?

Do you think that when Ferris asked his twin, if he would like to go fishing with him, if Halt breathed a silent sigh, that perhaps this would be what fixed their vie, and maybe he’d be able to find Ferris again, instead of the boy who seemed to replace him.

Do you think that when Halt, climbed to the bank, dripping with water and dripping with rage, and Ferris said that he didn’t mean to push him aside, that Ferris hoped that Halt would believe him and it’d all be fine. Fear mixed with something more genuine?

Do you think that when Halt ran away, that Ferris was terrified for the whole day? He continued with his plan, said he had drown, but he knew that Halt could yet be found, and so he hid in his room, so none could guess. The assassination of which he had made a mess.

Do you think that night, Ferris lay awake, because the silence brought out a hidden ache?

We know that he searched for Halt, and that killers were sent, but what do you think would happen if brothers once more met? Afore the golden liars came hence, afore the venom took him thence. If brother and brother, met other’s eye, would grief or terror become the great lie?

Once the tyrant’s soul had long past,

As remaining half’s age grew vast,

Perhaps, in his heart, Halt found a way, to mourn the boy who died that day.

Who had been wounded twice before. Once with poison and once with a tile,

The boy afore he turn’t most vile.

The brother with whom he grew and played

The O’Carrick that truly drown’t in May.

Drown’t in ambition,

Drown’t his fear,

Drown’t in a crown that he should ne’er wear

Yet still, I wonder, if I may,

If Ferris O’Carrick might’ve been saved? If he learn’t the error of his way. If someone reached and that hand he took? If Ferris didn’t die, and instead had to flee, and, perhaps, if he had met someone like me?

I haven’t said all I could, but words don’t rhyme unless they should, so I have stayed for years in this state, never meeting another who shares my fate, he is not hated, because he is a fool, he is not loved, because of his jewel, but I look at Ferris O’Carrick and see, someone who could very easily be me.

For I too am one whose compassion runs thin, whose anger runs cold,

And whose mind plots spin.

I have hated those who share my blood

I have betrayed those who have shown me love.

I once was called brave

I once was called nave

I once, too was called intelligent

I once too was called belligerent

I also do not look at my eyes in dim lit mirrors

For I am afraid of whom I may see.

Could I have saved him, if he shewn at my door? Could I trust the traitor I know that is dead? Could I have returned to the light, the virtues carried away in night? Or would I have merely fallen from what grace I retain? Would my patience shrivel and would my eyes grow vain? Yet, could I forgive myself, if I left him to lie? T’would be true, then, I am a traitor as Ferris is.

Therefore, I cannot blame him, as I previously said, and with his blood’s melancholy words I end:

“He was not the best brother, but he was the only one I had.”

And then, as more than ten have passed, and all the gruff and wise are near or dead, and the young are old and their children wed, Ferris O'Carrick was never mentioned again.