Mirror Me Now

the slow exhales mirror the desperation of our time. pavements crack like open watermelons, spilling and wasting nature's tonic— a simple cure for the young and restless, to quell the hand throwing fire. intangible resolutions run through a one-way street towards brittle tabloids of unsinkable truth. yet in its hateful weight, a highbeam blinding the masses with a nearsighted victory of half-baked headlines, the vessel sinks to a bottomless ocean that finds a violent darkness in its depth, while the shimmering crown tapers off into a sweet oblivion. the king awaits with his blunted sword, swaying in a stupor of impassioned rage. he points to his subjects who tear his words to mince meat and let them rot in the heat of summer. it smells of death here, and a swarm of plumpy flies follow their life-giver in the uproar of his scissoring mouth. but as he enters a room full of mirrors, there is nothing left to hold his frail conceit— easy to resolve as a handful of snow that melts in your clean hand.