I find myself constantly to be a new Sennacherib, a builder of means and stature whose hypothetical mind palaces soar graceful, swirling minarets and towers in a bloom of stone and woodwork. I paint the lines of a fairer sort of future. Art and mind meet and meeting, nice distinctions between word and meaning a fete of undiscovered promise. The country I rule loves me, and I it, because the grandeur I promise is the hubris they crave, to reach for the stars and pull them down to strike our foes with.
Yet I am filled to fat with the taste of boasting, of courtiers who froth at statue and monolith and fresco and column. I desire an older, more moribund ochre to my day. I wish not for victory and ardor, but for death. Cease the building of palatial accoutrement; I wish for tombs.
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Look at you, writing poetry. I really like the last paragraph. Moribund ochre is my new fav color.
ReplyDeleteI do like this one a lot. I might put it with Two Main Halves in the Robby Writing Renaissance of early 2016. We'll see if I like it enough in the morning to put it in the sidebar.
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