If we sunk back to when the kings claimed divinity, 
lounging in gilded throne rooms, spraying perfume 
reddened by thorny roses and spilled wine, 
would you abandon your arrogance,
grasp the folly of your grandstanding?
            Would you fight them with me? 

            Because in solitude or the sea of an army, 
            I would charge against their scourge, 
            surge forward, a speck in a suit of armor,
            glinting like sunlit streams turned tsunamis, 
            would spread my offerings, my pretty sentences
            if my body fell and fainted in the face of crises. 

            Because it’s obvious how fragrances made heady 
            to hide the blood of forcibly pricked fingers
            and shattered sherry bottles should stand trial;
            still, my unbidden advice escaped my tongue
            at our last goodbye — barely a hug and
            briefly, a glance: “We are who we are,
                        but when will you become more?”