Alessandro's Dilemma
402 Words
Alessandro walks the shadowy streets,
his heavy heart beats like a drum,
drawing echoes from the alley walls,
where whispers tell of power,
and betrayal seeps from every corner.
A king in a kingdom of smoke,
he sits on a throne made of greed,
a crown of secrets resting heavy
on his brow,
but beneath the toughened skin,
a boy still dreams of love—
the warm sun on his face,
the laughter shared over simple meals.
Alessandro stands at the edge,
torn between loyalty and desire,
as the nights stretch long and cold,
filled with sirens and shadows.
He watches his brothers crack,
under the weight of silver and blood,
each choice another chain,
clinking in the silence of a life
where love feels far away.
He knows the whispers of the heart,
the girl with eyes that spark like stars,
her voice soft as a gentle rain,
but how can he explain to her
the darkness that clings like a ghost?
His world spins on a wicked wheel,
every deal could be the last,
and the warmth of her hand feels dangerous—
a lit match in a storm.
In the quiet of the night,
he bows his head,
a king to his people,
but alone at the top,
he feels more like a prisoner,
irons masked in golden chains.
The phone buzzes with a name,
his heart quickens,
the pull between power and passion thrums
underneath his skin.
He needs to decide;
will he shackle his heart,
holding tight to the legacy of shadows,
or loosen the grip,
to grasp chance like a lifeline,
even when it breeds chaos?
If he chooses love,
does it mean losing control?
Or can love bloom amidst the ruins,
lift him from despair,
a compass in the dark web he’s spun?
Alessandro stares at the city’s glimmer,
the twisted path that led him here,
the darkness that jeers,
yet a flicker of light calls out,
and somewhere deep,
he knows he must try.
Logs snap in the fire,
the warmth wrestles against the chill,
and here he stands, on the threshold,
a king unsure of his crown,
daring to dream a different kind of reign,
where love and power
may find common ground,
where freedom rhymes with loyalty,
and where—maybe—
he can write his own tale,
beyond the ink and the shadows,
like a bird taking flight
into open skies.
- Writer
