Epithet

Like I,

Resistant to the end.

Although, by now, how would I even know?

Where does the fiction end and the reality begin?

the narrative

the dialogue?

When am I too deep—

Lost at sea

Where does sailing become drifting

When does drifting become, adrift?

In those moments of fragility

Enduring and driven.

Talented in nuance

What never-ending fetish this has become

Bearing the masks that hide our ruthlessness

Where I envision my enemies devoured by ants.

Picked clean by vultures

Worn thin by the endlessness

And I know my kind is like this,

Barren in a gentle way

As if dying from exposure

the sharpness of the weapon

only shows when composure is lost

Resourceful and resilient

Conversant and clear.

And yet, deluded.

As if any of them are anything like this

Where I feel more at home, alone in my mind

In the sense that writing about isolation does nothing to bring about its end.

There is an emptiness to this

That has become familiar

Like a king vocalizing epithets

Into an empty castle.