was made with grains
of sand. Molded with buttered
hands. The walls collapsed
in a wave. Too late for I to save.

His castle
was made in the clouds
with a grey shroud of mist
and a cyst full of doubt,
punching with his fist holes in
a fire sky. I was baked just like
the rye.

His castle
was made of milky paper,
sweet as a honey wafer. Pulled
from a cardboard book, smoked
and heavily shook. His grey ashes
landed on my eyelashes. So, I blinked.
He vanished in a wink.