Folly’s Poem
Written by Emperor Talimai’s Fool in the
year 15 T.R.
Oh thy
sweet city
built upon hills,
built upon stones and bones,
release me into the throes
of succulent bitterness
which dives and weeps upon man’s
betrothed courier
who sends messages from the moon of Zaradar,
the moon of an eternally embracing planet
circling lazily upon its star.
This land seeks to be what it shan’t be.
The empire weeps tears that aren’t forthwith,
she was laid, ripped and splayed
like a urchin ne’er do well
with honey tipped fingers.
An assassin lays waste
to those important
(thought safe)
Some are lying headless
upon amber thrones
as the whole Union shimmers
and quivers,
retching up volatile cries of retribution,
caustic.
But who seeks the assassin?
Only the river hunters
of the deepest carnal forests.
They go forth with their blades,
willing their kind to slow immaculate corrosion.
Meanwhile,
a muse thrusts a knife
into the woody ashen dusk.
A young boy tries to hold her hand
but he is too late.
Fights with fist bound in boiled rags,
Bleached to show the blood more deeply
as fingers split and cheeks are bruised.
The Wanderer wishes for death
but cannot follow through,
for if life is but a meandering blip into
non sequitur
death would only be that
but more.
She knows
what’s on the far side
and wishes that those who wish
cease to never wish for death
or self immolation.
Oh thy sweet city,
release me upon the throes
of succulent bitterness.
built upon hills,
built upon stones and bones,
release me into the throes
of succulent bitterness
which dives and weeps upon man’s
betrothed courier
who sends messages from the moon of Zaradar,
the moon of an eternally embracing planet
circling lazily upon its star.
This land seeks to be what it shan’t be.
The empire weeps tears that aren’t forthwith,
she was laid, ripped and splayed
like a urchin ne’er do well
with honey tipped fingers.
An assassin lays waste
to those important
(thought safe)
Some are lying headless
upon amber thrones
as the whole Union shimmers
and quivers,
retching up volatile cries of retribution,
caustic.
But who seeks the assassin?
Only the river hunters
of the deepest carnal forests.
They go forth with their blades,
willing their kind to slow immaculate corrosion.
Meanwhile,
a muse thrusts a knife
into the woody ashen dusk.
A young boy tries to hold her hand
but he is too late.
Fights with fist bound in boiled rags,
Bleached to show the blood more deeply
as fingers split and cheeks are bruised.
The Wanderer wishes for death
but cannot follow through,
for if life is but a meandering blip into
non sequitur
death would only be that
but more.
She knows
what’s on the far side
and wishes that those who wish
cease to never wish for death
or self immolation.
Oh thy sweet city,
release me upon the throes
of succulent bitterness.
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