King of Phrygia
The herald tapped your shoulder:
Midas summons you.
He wants to hug you—
He says his need for touch
Is greater than your want of life;
And you will become immune to rust.
Beautiful in gold, a commodity,
Auctioned, pride of sheikhs and counts,
Conversation catalyst.
The herald whispered:
But the transformation does not mean death—
Your consciousness,
Bound to those gold atoms,
Will outlast sheikhdom and feudalism.
Yes, you will not rust, and you will not die.
You may not forever remain a golden statue,
A visage of yourself.
You may glint incorrectly,
And be melted into coins for insolence,
Your mind scattered throughout
Countries and commerce.
The memory of you will be lost
In earrings and medals
But your mind will not,
Simultaneously looking into an old lady’s ear
And out at a cheering crowd in Olympia.
The herald had finished
And was sweating.
You struggle to pack sufficient clothes
For a week’s trip—
You politely decline the Golden King.
Jacob Hart is a third and final year student at Swansea University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Mathematics and Computer Science, and soon a masters in Statistical Science at Oxford. He has a work soon to appear in Seventh Quarry. He enjoys reading and writing all sorts of things voraciously, alongside mathematical studies and data science research.
