A Castle in Alabama

There is a quiet castle I've found

that very few have seen.

It is massive,

booming, but still

so subtle.

Its king is a keen one,

brilliant and methodical.

He could recite

verse after verse

and carry conversations about

Arabia, Germany,

Churchill, Indians.

He has been to Thailand

and eaten their fried crickets.

He has been to Hong Kong

and felt surprise at their firm grasp

of our tongue.

He has been to Australia

and tasted the Sun, the attention

for having burnt amber skin in a

sea of pink.

But he has never been

here. He has never been inside

the rhythmic repeating bones that hold

what should be

his earthly nirvana.

One, two, three,

and even four.

Four chunks to form

what should be

his world.

But the king's world

is his castle.

He had no aid,

no serfs to assist in

his world's construction.

Each day, in the

suffocating stick of the air,

he searched for the stones

and up it went.

We all have our 

inner architecture.

I have apartment walls.

He

has a dungeon

that glitters like Atlantis.

In his castle,

he cowers.

He calculates.

He cries

and wails.

Wonders, dreams,

misses every moment.

The King conceals

something that latches onto

his limbs, his skull,

his spirit,

And, in the moat of his estate,

gracefully pulls him down

and away

from one, two, three

and four.

Reviews

[zappy]

another great poem i like this one the most