he stood at italics
forlorn gaze: fixated
to a horizon
in a crowded room. he spoke
mumblings. tower of babel.
yet they made him smell so sweet.

he sat faced down
in conversation with sleep
in a crowded palace. he snored
silent breath.
imperial majesty and subjects bemused
yet they made him look so sweet.

has kongi gone mad in old age? that,
hands are crowded in giggles,
limbs blow flutes in tremor -
straddled his horse in clownish gallantry:
his head too cold for the crown.
his kingship genuflects in hollowness,
agending the agenda in an emilokan state.
gods forbid it!
that we put our ears on a platter at Meribah!