Alchemisland

Less eager to set at ease

Those who by sunup

Would be deceased

My life the run up

Without release

That runway stretches on and on

Like what Ozymandias sees.

At runaway slave speeds

Knowing nothing would impede

I tested every promised steed

Rising gears. If engines could rear.

With fingers splayed to an experimental pianist’s yogic utmost

She smoked down that day’s seventh Lucky Strike. A Thutmose

Who smiles knowing he will conquer his foes; the Nile his throne.

I dream of scaling ravines, to rappel down her palisaded self.