Within gilded château, atop The King’s Desk
Sits a shrine rest-less-ly.

Its known materials number thus:
1. Seven decades of self-debasement;
2. Fourteen letters (thirteen unread, unbled);
3. Five architects (one for the garden, none for the blade);
4. One life, forever forgotten.

And what of the concoctive creation?
She poses close-legged, open-mouth’ed,
Frown’s antidote found in cherried rain,
Clouds cotton-candied with sunrisen promise.
Behind her stands a golden-graved man:
The centuries have erased his face.

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