Favor Lost
words
from some distant place
other than glib cheeks,
to say them
is to demystify the price
of sacrificing years of breath.
i am ignorant, i am a pawn,
ridden by genies
who are these words,
these cruel wish fulfilments
which harness
colors, shapes, and collisions
until it is not i
who grasps the
import
of so many raised eyebrows,
not i who cuts through the common plot
and such overarching concern
for what is best.
no, it is the words.
the words marshal me
until i become a nuisance to some far-off scepter;
and the king
does not favor my smile
or my lack of full-throated lies
at all.
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