-spoke:
"You are king. That means something."

"Does it?" I asked aloud, wondering if:
"It must," my sister asserted. I-
-disagreed with a flattering hum,
rejoining, "So you say-"
-for:
"So I do. So did Mother and Father. So did your children."
"So did your wife and citizens, too."

I knew, "I know," and she laughed bellsome tears,
sounding of rain and lilies o'er my favourite bridge.
They splattered the Eos, overlooking our city, run red by the dawn.

"Hah!"

My sister's favourite was Nyx, a shadowed thing-
-brick and mortar, and rarely touched;
it sat far below, and stretched half as much;
a bridge of ill repute.

"Do you think it true?"
"Your honesty is real?"
"Always and forever," my sister replied,
half in and out my ear.

I let loose a lax breath, streaks ran down my face,
dawning red, featherlight lace.

Nyx was known for dying, darkened by the river,
furiously cleansing itself,
flooding tearful currents towards our city dear.
Dead bodies were common sights from those swept off its thick;
our people, dead bodies, gone like morning mist.

'How terribly morose on such a blessed day.'

I thought of other things, roughly hewn.
I sighed, and my sister sighed too.
Together we looked upon our city,
feeling old, far from youth.

I loved our people, like I did my bridge.
The world went quiet, the world went dim…

"If king I must be, then rule I shall," and my sister-
-ever clever
said:
"Very well,"
"What is your first-"
"Edict?" I asked, and wonder oh wonder,
for I spoke first and fast,
she was rent speechless, wordless phantom of the…

"Hah," I laughed,
"My sister is dead!"

Like Mother and Father, my wife,
and them:
My children many.

Down I looked, upon my ruin.

Further down sat Nyx, and below my feet Eos,
Both of them strong, unlike I,
king of a broken people,
leaping without fear.
Red and splattered bone,
I-

Information suppression and oppression go hand in hand,
The tools of tyrants and bullies the world over.

They've no care for your triumphs, your ennui, or your rage-
Die and weep, laugh and smile, we're all the same;
just another cog in Their machine of conflict and capitalism.
-there are always more children.

A vicious cycle repeated throughout history:
"We the People!" given life anew.

The answer is obvious; the right and wrong plain:
Black Lives Matter, among other equally clear issues.
Yet, people have chosen a side bereft of love;
a misaligned mob, uninformed and angry.

It's a migraine - a growing pain and self-surgery more so, this division
where sons and daughters and those undefined rail against 'tradition'.

Mayhaps that's the due,
The price of our condition...
Or so I might have said, once upon a time.
I've since learned to live, and better learned to rhyme.

The fight is continuous, and the price always paid.
I'd rather it us, a generation razed.

Love like wine
red against your tongue
bitter/sweet, intoxicating
and
less godly than you might have hoped for.

Beyond Love, there is nothing.
So, let us look at that which lies before.

There is a skier on the Rockies.
She is fraught with fear and worry.
Her muscles are fatigued. Below her feet, the oxygen of a stranger runs low.

She is trying.

Sweltering summer heat beats down one billion souls.
Of them, in a small corner of Churu, a man of little faith sits beside a dog.
She is wild and angry. Thirst grates her tongue.

He is giving.

Chicago is alive with nightly clamour.
Friends crawl between bars, *** and slumber on their minds.
The alleyways are familiar. The screaming is not.

They are fighting.

Speak to me of hatred, and all the evils committed in the name of 'love'.
Profess to me your ignorance.
I will gift unto thee a thousand stories as above.

All of them beautiful.

For we are more than diatribe and division or tribalistic cannibalism:
we are firelight intentions, freedom's way and righteous truth:
we are as ever:

All too human.