STOCKHOLM

I have amassed this mountain

made entirely from rags

while You search out for me 

day after day

year after year

I am busy. Building here. 

I am visited by this fog

and cannot make it leave 

out of sync with my reflection

and my ability to grieve

 

but it provides protection

a distance between us 

perpetuates the myth

this kingdom cannot rust 

I polish this throne

until my spirit is dead

and fingers raw-boned

heavy as lead 

but o’ how it shines

and captivates others

whitewashes my exhaustion

in the safety of numbers

For this is the mantle

passed down from our fathers