The Rabbit Hole (The King)

He was a poet of the highest order of poets, or so he'd say, if you could ask him. 1

Normally, a poet is only one who partakes in the craft of writing poetry. In  his case, being a poet of the highest order meant that his very breath was hot with flames of passion, and he'd worship the countanence of any thing of beauty he saw.2

But it also meant this: he was in love. It mattered not who he loved, for he had ample love to extend to everyone. He'd spend most of his time writing of them; all his friends and lovers: the woman who bought groceries at the little market on the corner by his loft, his landlord, who meticulously put on heirs of despicability, but was actually a nice man worthy of love and admiration, a breathtakingly gorgeous belle he saw only once, crossing the street outside his window....3

There were poems,4

volumes5

for them all.6

Once, he'd even been certain he was loved in return. Of course, that'd always been too much for him to hope for, as not many people engage in life with the fervor of a poet of the highest order, but he was so sure....7

Her name was Francesca. He met her when he was feeding pigeons by the canal. They talked of things, and they had a nice dinner, and he was going to tell her how much he loved and adored her, but before he could she paid her half of the bill and said she had to return to her husband.8

He wept most of that night; tears of love unrequited.9

It should come as no surprise to you, the reader, that our poet of the highest order one day went very suddenly and dramatically mad. It certainly came as no surprise to him, and when he was very sure of his madness, he was a bit relieved.10

And this is how a poet became the King of the realm of Hearts. Insanity is  a shortcut to any goal, though being king is not exactly what he'd had in mind. What is a poet to do with power, especially one of the highest order, who desires only to love and, perhaps and if its not too much to ask, be loved in return?11

He was delighted, then, to meet the Queen.12

She of storied crimson lips13

and cruel and distant eye14

never one to be admired15

by idle passersby,16

she, embittered by the hand17

of husband not in Wonderland18

of memory, and frown long19

it took a poet of the highest order20

to write her a song.21

Is love ever perfect? The King didn't know. He'd loved, and he'd loved frequently, as we know, but he'd never been in love, except for with his darling Queen. He'd dote on her, and worship her as he'd always wished to have the opportunity to do, and she'd be doted on and worshipped, as she'd always wished to have the opportunity to do. They were both so very happy; the domineering, monsterous Queen and her childlike King.22

The poet of the highest order was crying when the colored veils of Wonderland's delerium left his mind. Were he in his own apartment, it'd have taken him nearly no time at all to procur a fresh piece of paper and a fountain pen, but he was in a madhouse, somewhere, and getting anything from an orderly is a difficult task.23

With his materials, he sat down to write, fondly lost in the memory of the whole experience. Love had always moved his words before, even such weak, watery love as he'd generally felt in the past. This love was violently all-consuming and grandious. This time, she'd loved him back. He wanted nothing more than to relive the whole thing, line after rhyming, cursive line.24

But he couldn't. There was no poetry that was adequate for the enormous upwelling of feeling, no words that did not pale and flee from him when put to the task of substantiating soft, quiet nights spent by her side, or the shining beacon of her occasional smile, or the soft press of her lips against his.25

He put down the pen and was surprised to look up and see that he did not love the orderly, who had given him his pen and paper so willingly, nor did he love the beautiful nurse whom the orderly was talking to. He only loved one person, and that person was gone from him.26

"Where?27

Dead.28

Who knows where she is now."29

He wrote these words on his piece of paper, wrote "Queen" at the top, and began crying. The madhouse was filled with the whispers and echoes of despair; moans and groans and frantic, panicked sobbing, but none so adequately captured a perfect portrait of complete, helpless sadness than the tears of the poet of the highest order, splashing against fresh ink on his last poem ever as he realized that he'd forgotten how to write.30