Postcard From My Soul

My heart received a postcard from my soul yesterday Dog-eared, and slightly discolored The hand writing appears as if it were rushed and tossed in to the closest mailbox to expedite its delivery My mind read it, and wept The thoughts seemed sober, but they were drunken words The words were like little knives They cut me deep, but I don’t think they were intended that way The picture on the card was of a castle in Bavaria A tall grand palace where en emperor once reigned Now it rains inside of my soul I’m a king without a castle An emperor without a throne A ruler without subjects to even call my own My crown is fashioned out of cow pies and mud My cloak is made from rotted sheep’s wool Blackened with ash and crumbled leaf fragments for decoration My shoes are potato peels stitched together and split apart at the toe Again, this restless spirit screams for supremacy A place wherewith to sit and impose dictatorial consonants of power My throat is swollen with epithets of lost praise My time is on pause And I cannot see the forrest for the ferns that blind me with their plush bowers I’m done talking The king has spoken