A voice which resonates with mine
lies in the strained heads of kings
crowned with chrome
and throned atop the pitted bodies of brothers
who share a pulse of thunder
with light from the minds of the blind.
Extremes strike royally a phrase
quoted from a diary seldom read to remember
while deciphered by eyes--closed
and hiding a room I've been given
within the limits of this kingdom.
It is buried as we
--following the life of worlds found in approaching dreams
with eyes that study with stares,
learning to shut for minds
anticipating lines of light in tripled fashion.
I now wonder,
"Was I mistaken to the order of dimension I brought?
For I cannot help but hope
that nothing compares to a well-placed hit,
and that if my life I could do over
as with a study of force,
Time would be my slave...
so at least we'd be equals."