The city is white.
The strand is white.
The sky is blue paler
than the ocean is blue.
The sail that just broke
the horizon is white.
It’s white, right?
Tell me it’s white.
The king will tell you
The same damned thing:
You are the king.
We are… everything.
The sail is black.
It’s always been black,
going all the way back.
It’s black
*
“Evil” is a shorthand:
a convenient knot on a string
Every day we dress the children
in white cotton for the king.
We say, “children”, but we mean
something else, surge of protein:
most will survive.
When was the last sail you’ve seen
that wasn’t white?
It’s white, right?
The sail is white.
The sail is white.
And life is woven light.
Monsters are movies.
Life is mood.
Face down on the sand
is a what not a who.
And whos that are whats
are food.
*
Your heart is a labyrinth
where the minotaur lives.
The bull-king’s heart is weak and wormy,
compromised by compromise.
But this is only what must be
because this is what you want.
You’re free.
*
You cannot be forgiven.
I cannot be absolved.
Ours hearts are ash, lungs
saltwater, and stomachs stuffed
with children seethed in belief.
Our labyrinth is formed in curves not angles.
That singing is sirens, not angels.
All the forever we’ve lost is now.
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