The Kidnapped Prince Of Iceland
Awoken from Iceland,
I sigh.
Fly high,
for breakfast,
before staring,
aimlessly,
at shameless tourists.
Beat up the windows,
Ask me to dance.
I will not dance.
I’m so far away,
and they push pills in me,
and starve me out,
to bring me closer.
I lay still,
where nobody can see,
surrounded by tortured strangers,
that have become family.
I will not dance.
Bottom of the pool,
waiting for Iceland.
I will not dance for you,
in your cheap, chlorine hell.
My body belongs to the sea.
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