In a Year of Dreams

What a heartache

A year has been:

A thousand dreams

And a thousand miles

In one milestone.

I take my pleasure-

Pain endured-

Making sure I lose

My words to time;

In nothingness

I see the vaults

Of the palace-heart,

They’re stacked up with chance,

Every divine metaphor

Just a trick to please the fool,

Who will dance above.

Painting the soles

Of my feet a bitter black

To prove that my journey

Was not wasted on those metres

Seems an exercise

So pointless,

For the jester claims

No prize when he

Runs for the King-

Rather, he has no chance to run

For king, in his own right-

Instead a fool remains one,

Paid on glorified desire,

No matter how many hours

And days,

And pitiful, penniless weeks,

He spends attempting happiness.

Thus, I shall not.

I will not create

A dwelling from shards

Of a relationship;

I cannot dwell on items

That belong to another year,

One past and stored,

One vaulted,

In a place where memories cast

No shadow on the daylight,

Hours of beyond thinking,

Playing with a chance

To live in more than

Time; immanent yet eternal,

A clown to save the heart,

That of a King.

Yet, masters are hard

To please in ages,

Where the year

Has been an ache

Compatible with that

Of the loss:

A lord once lost,

A century in heartache.

The End

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