crown
tipped towards the empty
castle,
the anthem
the
axle
the mantra muttered redundant 
the hopes, stained something
slight repugnant,
if only in their honesty.

a dumbstruck bard
born
in an age of apathetic
consumption,
a wish, for
something, or
nothing,
just enough, please,
of
the almost grasping 
identity
of 
intention apart from 
convention, and
duty,
some temporary perpetuity.

something sweet, if
could be
pleased,
something resounding against 
the din
that otherwise appears
as kin,
something 
like the stories that 
inspire groan, 
you know,
deplorable dichotomies as
opposed
to all this
soliloquy.