Exile s Brand

My mother gone, I knew no grace, 
A father cold, his heart of stone. 
He saw in me no skill, no place— 
A son unworthy of his throne. 

The other boys would run, would fight, 
Their laughter sharp as arrows’ flight. 
While I, adrift, the frail, the meek, 
Was left unseen: the small, the weak. 

One careless day, with hands untrained, 
A heavy stone—a fatal spark. 
A boy lay still, his life unchained, 
My name now cursed, my future dark. 

“Be gone,” he said, his verdict grim, 
“Your shame will not pollute my name. 
To foreign shores, where none know him, 
Begone, and shoulder all your blame.” 

To Fthia’s land I then was sent, 
Where exiled sons in shadow lay. 
Among their ranks, my back was bent, 
A blemished boy with skies of gray. 

The hand that ruled, the king, was kind, 
But nothing eased my hollow chest. 
The training fields, the sun's cruel bind, 
Held no reprieve, nor offered rest. 

And then, the prince—a living flame, 
His hair a blaze the gods might share. 
Achilles shone, the world his claim, 
An idol none could not compare. 

The others flocked, they sought his glance, 
Each step he took a lion’s tread. 
While I, in silence, stood askance, 
A flickering ember, cold and dead. 

He raced the wind with speed divine, 
A lyre’s tune upon his tongue. 
The halls would thrill, his light would shine, 
A golden prince, forever young. 

Then once, beneath the noonday glow, 
A twist of fate—a fleeting thread. 
His eyes met mine, as if to know 
What ghost it was that hung its head. 

A crooked smirk, his tilted crown, 
A curious gleam, fierce yet still kind. 
And though he turned and glanced back down, 
His spark had struck my shadowed mind.