He is a king of sorts
in a realm washed of color
shaded solely in flutters of grey
like butterflies drained of life.
In a realm washed of color
he sits on a classic throne
several inches above the floor
A haven for his motionless body to fold into.
Several inches above the floor
Hovers some semblance of life
Or is it an illusion of creatures
With clipped wings, bound just above the floor
like butterflies drained of life.
He rules over a hollow place paved
by actions lost so far in the past
He forgets how to regret.
There may once have been more than this castle
shaded solely in flutters of grey
but he no longer dreams in hues
nor of delicate flight.
He sits on a classic throne
several inches above the floor
where his subjects lay before him
in a colorless illusion he has learned not to question.
Lucy Zhang 