there are not many kingdoms left, my heart said.
but do not worry,
when i crown you wisdom in the next open field, there will be a throne and there will be a castle

the throne made of collected wrinkly sheets of music, the kind that my fingers have composed upon the roughness of your absence
the castle built of stones created from vats of water, the salty kind that falls from my eyes that i cannot bear to term tears

i believe in the disappearance of concrete, even as it pours from your mouth and your eyes

my kingdom is invaded,
but the invasion is not permanent
it lasts a long time,
perhaps an indelible impression
like the ghosts of trees we saw in new mexico from a fire long past

but there is green everywhere surrounding
hills, and dust, and sand,
creeks albeit manmade
cows albeit man fed

i am ready for the green
the sheets of music to be clean

our veins to be separate, a heart quietly beating out the songs of the past
so that i can move on to the lyric i will compose tomorrow

this is freedom, i believe.