beauty, love, poetry, women

Rebuilding the castle

This was a phalanstery

Packed with exhausted cries 

Faded pleas for privacy

But events and experiences

The walls breathing

Intermingling flocks, shoals

Of visitors who borrowed

And took

Given and received in fear

Of rejection and denials

Of the brute, gruff beast 

Who was the true king

Exiled to a small corner,

A bathtub of spiders

For company,

Dried jerky of faint approval

Salted to sting the gums

But when you’ve scoured 

Battered cushions for change to

Buy back a strength of purpose

And the doors 

Splintered with a well intended blow

Then the strongest, prettiest visitors remain

A round table for allies

Carved from old timbers

And a throne made from the bones of

Petty enemies

Queens and healers approaching

Might see the place, 

Call it a castle and call on its king

See if they are worth a place

At his side.

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