I am risking punishment & misery for this:
a poet is born after a storyteller dies. How easy
was it to build & destroy a kingdom overnight?
After what was spoken, the echoes still move
the ruins as if reviving, and the story wasn’t told
the same way again. There was a king who saw
this pass away in front of him, and the legend
passed through generations of poets dying to know
a version true enough to exist. The dawn reveals
that everything in the world will never be a line
except for the horizon. He points his thumb out
& traces stiffly across his neck, looking straight
to the poet’s eyes. Another version will be told
later — for now, the poet must die of misery.