Capital Revival

Where is she now, in fields of firelight?
Where is she when you think of the burning?
Not here, not near, so distant in this night.
With constant turning, I curse my yearning.
Limbs flailing over bar stools and young eyes,
The twinkle in her pupil is your grave.
Her hair, falling rivers to trace demise.
This wound will lie, and tell you to be brave.
Like the jester juggling his tragedy,
And the king declaring his full bounty,
For the head of he who laughs placidly,
At the absurdity of such dowry.
Just laugh, my son, for all our heads will roll,
When she wanders past, and flicks her hair free,
When her eyes moisten at loss of control,
When she finds that the past is all she sees.
The future is receding and final,
As we wake from wounds and breathe revival.

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