Snide circle of life,
something about the conservation of all energy
that enervates the grand delusion
how you watch over me when I sleep
to catch a softness that fades as I wake
The Prince felt like a tragic figure now, a jilted lover cast adrift in a callous, uncaring world. The Prince was done. The Prince was over.
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“No, stay here. I want to be with you here, where everyone can see.”
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Your puzzled palms will unclose their prayer.
You will tilt your head at it
as if a weightless dawn
had first illuminated the hue
of your long-closed eyelids,
They will call me a sprite, an imp, a mischievous fairy, a hobgoblin, Robin Goodfellow. You can just call me Puck.
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The moon illuminates no one, but me, for no one is in the
room but me and the moon.
And war is fire,
forcing people into the same boundary,
each becomes an ant,