I've never written anything but small poems and rarely. At my age, poems are not required to be read or written. I still do, of course, but I am an amateur. This isn't very good, but I hope you enjoy it. This is written with Edmund Pevensie in mind.
Prompt 1: Lock
Crimson flowed out of several cuts;
The blood pooled on the floor.
The cold ice chilled him and made him shake
As his heart bled to the very core.
And ice seemed to be drawn to him
Numbness coated him as a blanket
Guilt coated him like a second skin
And he knew he couldn't shake it.
Perhaps this was how it was meant to be.
Maybe he was meant to die.
And he thought he wouldn't fight it
If it meant to escape this life.
But Edmund never had to die,
For Aslan did the deed.
And he felt oh so guilty again
For the Great Lion to die in his stead.
Even as he grew and matured in Narnia as king,
The guilt never really left.
Those shackles still bind him to this day
And somewhere in his mind the thought repeats…
Maybe it was he who was meant to die.
