Gold dripping from the ceiling,
a puddle on the floor,
step into it, unfeeling.
Follow the torrid path to
walls of castles, their towers,
some of the bricks askew.
Simple architecture, 24-karat gleam,
but they hold presents and pasts
and futures and dreams.
Which to trust, which to beware,
sometimes you trespass,
a trying affair.
Around some there is night,
but a void of light.
Some brim with people, yet utterly
their cries hidden immediately.
They have so much to say,
but they keep to themselves,
in the harsh light of day.
Trapped in the scabbed ribcages
of time bombs; one move,
you pay your wages.
They seek relief in e m p t y,
The ice hides
in the crevices
by the tides
Then there’s red on the inside,
scarlet rivulets through
the veins of the towers,
hidden from the outside.
On the inside, disarray,
They are tired of being tired,
the invincible let down their walls,
only warmth they desired.
Lactic acid burning in every fiber, spliced
with the gold and red,
turning to ice.
Yet the wings, shattered and fragmented,
encircle a spine deformed by stones,
and the warmth is augmented.
The gold trickles from the ears
collected over years.
Turns from a puddle into a sea,
surrounded by darkness,
the kingdoms like floating debris.
You are always on a stage,
create movement inside the ribcage.