Frownland

There was oftimes arson in his eyes - even as a boy;
flames familiar to his face.
Orphaned at the hand of one uncle,
Fathered by the reach of another.

A model of sorrow, his mother
Understood too well
How many men soever you slay,
You will never kill your successor.

The men she had killed surely suffered.
Treasoners, rivals and loves -
There is no antidote
To politics.

When their insides burned
So too did hers!
As she seized in grief
Her victims followed suit.

He would take after her,
The boy with the fire in his eyes,
Matricide bellows from his throat,
And continues a family tradition.

Mother and boy
Died in much the same way.
No breath left to suck.
Decidedly fatal.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.