Playing Cards

The awkward emperor. Paints his kingdom in the hues. Of blind deities. And deaf demons. All the sounds and colors much better reserved for people rather than gods. He struts boastfully in his invisible clothes. A child. A clown. An empty kingdom. Where the soil still salivates for a viable seed.

Water. Water everywhere. Won't you grow this root. That plays the dagger to my weak Iago. Betrayed. Sent home with nothing but my impotent Othello. These stern Desdemona's failing like bad multiplication tables.

But I am not trying on his clothes. That arrogant emperor. With his shit buried in the roses.

We go back. We go forward. We travel all manner of instances. As if we have power, but we have failed to convince it.

We paint the railings. For our hands to grip. As we stumble down the stairs. In a panic. It's not like I knew. It's not as though I cared.

I just found him there. In a torn cocoon. Without wings and demanding that I remember. What never happened. Between us.