A King Among Kings

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He is a king among kings.
Though our blood channels
different currents, we collide,
and combust inside of eddies.
He is mine, as I am his.
Our roots planted on a summer day,
and fed with cakes, offered to children
who believed themselves, unloved.
Roots fertilized with the vomit
of whys and maybes,
just maybe.
What makes a man?
I used to watch him sleep,
that boy child, left
to fend for himself,
for us all.
Eyes like the moon,
bright and full
of questions, and sights
he never wanted to see.
What is the measure of a man?
At nine, shaking and pulling,
violence away from souls
he worked to keep sweet.
At eleven, tending wounds
and whispering soothing words
born in a mind far wise
beyond his years.
What does make a man,
the heavy step upon those weaker,
or the gentle hand upon the stepped?
He has been both, and a man
no finer I shall find.
He is a king among kings,
but I call him
Brother.

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