The freight train fires past,
and then my view is clear.
Clean apartments across the street,
untouched and unburdened by the responsibility of being a home,
resided in by imaginary, investment capital,
close to the capital city but never seeing the smoke,
all alone, in a way that I find painfully relatable.
This town has nothing to see.
I kneel before its share of the sunrise,
soaked in nostalgia for the sea,
my first escape and mistress,
long before I would admit that I was escaping.
It’s the emptiness that gets you.
My heart is light,
because she let go of all expectations,
and now she is at home in the emptiness of the flats,
the kitchen cupboards,
both in luxury apartments and in my own crumbling lair.
The King is rich,
but he still lines his snout with the souls of the poor.
Within a moment,
his stomach is as empty as the luxury flats.
He wants more. He needs more. He loves more.
I know why I resent him,
but I don’t know why I should stop.
That greedy pig had two wives,
every advantage and billions of pounds and precious jewels waiting for him,
and I have these streets,
those faraway flats,
and my share of his coronation bill.
Is it healthy for me to hate a delusional, wealthy waste of space for being delusional and wealthy?
He’s just doing what he knows,
and so am I.
Is it fair?
Is it kind?
Am I fair?
Am I kind?
Is life fair?
Is life kind?
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