Lord of Misrule

In her image the sun made me round and ornately petaled,

burning and erupting in feathery plumes. Don’t stare!

I was the Sun King. Shadows radiated away from me

like the teeth of my enemies strung on a reckless necklace.

That’s not a mugger’s knife but a prisoner of earth’s desperate attempt

to pick my lock. I was, after all, the state. Why must I now perform

for the forgotten and forgettable? Why have I not limped like a blimp

into the humped clouds? I can’t seem to shake this legacy of lead,

asteroids roaring in the vacuum of my farcical heart.