The work of decades is accomplished in a moment,
the dreams of kings and fabled castle ramparts
are thrown down and travestied in ruin
in the ground beneath the surface earth,
the superficial soil of a heart or its conviction.
Build, hammer and build and create where once,
a moment past, a moment more, was nothing.
Here am I, will you take me? Will anyone take me?
Is redemption here standing,
or has the poet cast a question mark,
inverted desperate fishing hook
amidst a straining sea of torrential ink?
There, another king, I see him.
A king in a purple cold wrapped up,
marked over by his own transgressions
and unwashable stains in his eyes.
These will cleanse me, he cries of his tears, they will do it by heat.
The king of the world is a fabric ill-set in his seat.
Awaiting the weight of the world on weak shoulders
and bones that are yet to be born,
the lord of the empire is drowning in shame;
he is made by all subjects
the subject of scorn.